Emanations of Hate
by 96 Hubbles
Summary: Bizarre events raise hard questions for Hogan and his men. July 12th: I'm going away for awhile, so I've posted the final three chapters all at once.
1. mad dogs and englishmen

_Disclaimer: Most of the characters are not mine. If I owned them, there would have been more episodes. I'd also be living off the royalty money instead of working and so would have all the time in the world to write. The characters you recognize are from the show. A few of the other names mentioned were - very unfortunately - real people. Everyone else is mine._

_**Emanations of hate **_

"I think there's something wrong with Newkirk."

"Like what Carter?" Kinch mumbled over the screwdriver he held in his mouth as he tried to re-attach two wires to the radio.

"I don't know. I think something's bothering him. He hasn't been himself the last couple of days."

"I haven't noticed anything." Kinch's attention moved from the two loose wires to a frayed third one.

"Really? I just think…I dunno, it's like he's really mad at something," Carter continued. His earnestness and sincere worry made Kinch look up. He took the screwdriver out of his mouth.

"Look Carter, I wouldn't worry about it. We've had a hard month is all. Too many missions, pressure from London, Klink antsy and paranoid for God only knows what reason and a hundred other things going wrong for no reason at all. Even the weather's been miserable." He turned the radio back on for a test, intent once more on the constant and tedious repair work involved with a machine slapped together with scrounged up and hand made parts. "Let's face it, everybody's tired and cranky. And I don't think any of us will be getting leave on the French Riviera any time soon. So just do yourself a favour and keep - _Damnit!_" Kinch swore and shook his fingers.

"You okay Kinch?"

"Do I look…" he started sharply, then sighed. "Yeah. I just got a bit of a shock. Sorry if I snapped at you. Remember what I said about us all being cranky? Me too I guess."

"Yeah, it's okay. I know everybody's tired and everything."

"Like I was saying, just keep out of Newkirk's way for a few days. He'll be fine."

"You think so?"

"Sure. Newkirk's just kind of moody. After all, he's been here a long time. That's got to get to him every once and awhile. He'll complain and blow off steam and then the Colonel will send him out on a mission and he'll have a few drinks while he chases the girls at the Hofbrau and he'll be his old self again. I don't think there's anything to worry about."

"Okay Kinch." The hesitant note in Carter's voice made the older man look him over attentively.

"And look, don't go bothering the Colonel about this. He's had enough to worry about between the Krauts and all the static he's been getting from London."

"I won't Kinch, thanks."

Carter sounded more relieved than he felt though. He stood there a moment longer wondering if Kinch would say anything else, but his fellow sergeant was concentrating on the radio again; it looked like he was trying to pry loose some fused piece of metal. Carter left him to it and, after glancing upwards as if he could spot Newkirk through the ceiling of the tunnel, he went to his lab to think. Keeping out of the English corporal's way was good advice, but somehow the idea that Newkirk was simply in a rotten mood was unsatisfying. As much as he trusted Kinch's opinion, he couldn't help but feel that there was more going on. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on however. Newkirk _was_ in a rotten mood, just…_worse_. His tone was sharper, his words a bit more cutting. When he teased Carter, it wasn't teasing anymore. He kept away from all of them and if they could get him to play cards he did it without any joking; taking their money with an unspoken but mean sort of pleasure.

Still, Lebeau had said the same thing when Carter had asked him if he had noticed anything strange about Newkirk lately. He hadn't, and just told Carter to keep out of Peter's way for awhile. Kinch and Lebeau were smart guys, and Kinch was used to watching the team and judging their moods. The older sergeant had taken it on as his unofficial job to keep track of morale as well as the necessary detail work involved in any of the Colonel's schemes. The Colonel relied on Kinch to keep them all on track. Carter could trust Kinch to know if Newkirk was truly angry or upset about something.

_Unless_, it occurred to him, _it's just me that Newkirk's mad at_. Perhaps Lebeau and Kinch didn't notice anything wrong with Peter because he wasn't acting any differently around them. Carter racked his brain for anything he might have done or said lately, anything that he might have forgotten. He even tried to remember if he had spilled anything on Newkirk or stepped on his foot or anything else that might have aggravated the Englishman. Nothing came to mind. _Maybe Kinch is right and Newkirk's got cabin fever or he's worried about the bombing in London again, _Carter thought. If it was something like that there was little he could do other than sympathize with his friend. Carter decided to take Kinch's advice; no matter what the cause of Newkirk's mood he probably needed some space, and Carter had to admit in all honesty that he wouldn't mind the break from Newkirk's temper either.

Still, he was worried.

"Hurry up with those nails!" Newkirk snapped as Carter was coming up the ladder. "And watch where you're bloody going Carter!"

"Okay, okay! Geez!" Carter's plan of avoiding Newkirk had only half worked for the last three days. It had spared him the sharp side of the safecracker's tongue - well, some of it anyway, it was impossible to completely avoid a man who was locked in the same barracks as you - but it hadn't improved Newkirk's mood at all. Then the Kommandant had ordered a work detail to do various repairs around the camp - Klink had got word from the Luftwaffe Weather Bureau that some big storm was coming - and he had got stuck fixing the roof on one of the supply sheds with Newkirk.

_Great, just great_, Carter thought. For two hours now he had been snapped at, yelled at and generally ordered around. By a Corporal yet. Not to mention that the teasing that wasn't teasing had definitely given way to a few more direct, though minor, insults. _This is getting old, fast. Heck, it was old three or four days ago. What would it be now? Ancient? Dead and buried? _

"Stop your lollygagging Carter and get up here. Why don't you try and be some help for once?"

"I do help! I do all kinds of things around here! I - "

"Oh pack it in! This job's already miserable enough without 'aving to listen to you nattering on all day."

Carter climbed over to Newkirk and thrust the bucket of nails at him. "Here!"

Newkirk looked inside the bucket, "Fabulous work Andrew," he sneered, "You've been a great bloody help. You've brought me the wrong bleedin' nails!" He shoved the bucket back into Carter's chest.

Carter felt his cheeks burn at having his mistake pointed out to him like this. He felt angry and humiliated, not only at Newkirk, but at himself for letting Newkirk see him screw up again. _I only picked up the wrong bucket!_ He actually opened his mouth to shout back, but then stopped. Newkirk was glaring at him; a challenging glare, even vicious and Carter realized that if he started something now that things would turn ugly and be out of his control with all of the speed of a flash fire in parched grass.

But that wasn't what stopped him. It was the pained glitter in Peter's eyes.

Newkirk's jaw was clenched and his stance was tense, as if ready for a fight. But his eyes showed that he was struggling with some other emotion as well, and beyond that Carter even thought that he almost saw a pleading in them. A pleading for him to back down, to not push things. He drew back, confused. Then with a quicker understanding than anyone, including himself, would ever have given him credit for, Carter saw that this wasn't about him. Eyes still locked, the younger man took a deep, harsh breath and pulled his anger back down inside. Then he turned away and without a word, climbed back down the ladder with the bucket of nails. Slightly calmer by the time he started back up with the new nails, he sighed.

_No, this isn't about me. I'm just the stupid chump he's going to take it out on._

By later that afternoon Sergeant Andrew Carter, amiable, good-natured and gentle, was having very vivid daydreams about how many massive amounts of explosives he could ram as painfully as possible down his best friend's throat. When Newkirk snapped at him for not moving quickly enough, he ignored him and thought _impact or delayed reaction? _When he heard Newkirk muttering under his breath about 'thick-headed clots' Carter kept hammering and pondered on the matter of detonators versus short lit fuses. And when Newkirk spat out a long stream of curses at him when a board didn't happen to fit just right, he had a very intense vision of throwing a box of lit matches on a very specific Englishman saturated with gasoline.

Still he said nothing, but it was making him feel like a fool - a _weak_ fool. Out of hurt and frustration he found that he was beginning to curse himself almost as much as he was cursing Newkirk. _Why don't I say something? Anything! Why the heck am I letting him push me around like this?_ Trying to remember how Newkirk had looked before, he started wondering if he had imagined it, if he had made it up as an excuse to get out of a fight he knew he couldn't win.

"Carter, we're out of nails. Go and get some more."

"Why don't you go get them?" Carter snapped, "It's your turn! I got'em when we were fixing the supply shed." They had moved on to reinforcing the barrel of the water tower and _no way _was he going to go tramping up and down that ladder in this heat.

"And if you had just brought enough nails when we first climbed up here you daft sod, no one would _have_ to go for them! So get the nails! The _right_ ones this time!" Newkirk bellowed.

Suddenly Carter felt very worn out.

"You shouldn't talk to me like that," he protested, but he was already starting down the ladder.

"Give it a miss Carter." Newkirk had already turned back to his work, unconcerned with how his words were affecting his friend.

Luckily, Carter was more than half way down when it happened. Lebeau had fixed the men some sandwiches and brought them some water - no one wanted a hot dinner with all of this humidity - and was just crossing the compound to give some to his two friends when he saw Schultz get into the truck parked a few feet away from the base of the water tower. Newkirk's yelling startled him suddenly, but he couldn't make out the words. Remembering his conversation with Carter a few days before, he was still looking up at the English corporal when he heard the thump of the truck hitting the ladder and Carter's simultaneous yelp as he plunged to the ground.

Horrified, he dashed over to the prone figure, throwing the sandwiches down in his haste. Kinch, Schultz and Foster beat him there and Lebeau gave a mighty sigh of relief when he saw Carter stirring as his friends helped him to sit up.

"That's it Carter, just try and sit up. Bend over a bit like this. A little bit forward, that's right. Try to breathe slowly. You'll be okay," Kinch was saying as Lebeau came up to them. Carter was struggling and making terrible gasping noises.

"Is he alright Kinch?" Lebeau asked, bending over Carter and trying to see his face.

"He's had the wind knocked out of him, otherwise I think he's alright. Thatta boy Andrew, keep breathing," Kinch said in a soothing tone, more to reassure a shaken and dazed Carter than to answer Lebeau.

"Are you sure Sergeant Kinchloe? Maybe we should take him to the hospital, ja?" Lebeau had to smile at the anxious tone in Schultz's voice. _Poor Schultzie, he really feels bad. It's nice to see at least one remorseful Boche._

"Well, we'll try the infirmary first I think. Tom," he gestured to Foster, "go and get Wilson and have him meet us there." Foster nodded and ran off. Kinch called after him, "And if Klink's done with the Colonel you'd better let him know what happened."

He looked at Carter again. "How are you doing Andrew? Think you can stand up?" Carter nodded feebly. "Okay guys, let's get him up." With Kinch on one side and Schultz on the other they started to assist a grey-faced Carter to his feet when Carter suddenly hissed with pain and fell back against Kinch, cradling his left wrist.

"Carter, what is it?" Lebeau asked.

"My hand! Schultz pulled on it when he was helping me up."

"Here, let me see," Kinch said, as a stricken Schultz launched into another apology. Gentle hands examined it for a moment. "I can't be sure, but I think it's just a sprain. We'll let Wilson take a look." And with that, Kinch and Schultz, taking hold of Carter much more carefully this time and still apologizing, started off again. Lebeau lingered a minute listening to Carter already forgiving the large Sergeant.

"Well that's bloody charming! Now I suppose 'e won't be able to 'elp me finish the job." Lebeau started at the irritated voice from behind him. He whipped around to confront a glowering Newkirk.

Momentarily puzzled, he glanced at the ladder of the water tower. "How did you get down?"

"Nice of someone to finally think of that," Newkirk snarled. "Schultz just tapped the damned thing," he said, gesturing with his thumb. "Didn't even break a board. If Carter wasn't such a clumsy oaf, 'e could've 'eld on."

"It wasn't Carter's fault Newkirk." Lebeau was perplexed by the venom in Newkirk's tone. "It was an accident. And why are you blaming Carter? It was Schultz who hit the ladder."

Newkirk scoffed and stalked off towards the barracks. "Malingering git," he muttered. He turned back to a still stunned Lebeau, "If Klink asks, tell 'im I'm through with repairs for the day. And 'e can fix that bleedin' ladder 'imself - not that it needs it."

Lebeau swore softly to himself. _Merde! It's going to be that sort of day_. After pausing for a moment wondering if he should pick up the thrown sandwiches, he decided that the Boche could keep their own camp clean and walked over to the infirmary to see how Carter was doing.

The Stalag 13 infirmary was not large by any means, certainly not large enough for the number of POWs in camp. Still, it was not often full, since it was usually easier to have the patient's friends nurse all but the most serious cases in the man's own barracks and for anything more a prisoner was generally sent to the hospital. It consisted of twenty beds, a table for Wilson to do his paperwork, a couple of rickety chairs and a sink with a few shelves overtop containing a meagre supply of bandages and painkillers. Anything else Wilson needed had to be scrounged up by the men while out of camp and hidden by him from the more vigilant guards.

But it was clean, and at the moment crowded by more than a dozen prisoners and Schultz, who was a crowd in himself. Lebeau squeezed himself in between Garlotti and Minsk and worked his way round to where Kinch and Colonel Hogan were standing behind Carter. The patient himself was sitting on one of the chairs while Wilson finished taping up his wrist.

"There you go Carter. It's not a bad sprain. Avoid using it for a couple of days and keep it taped up and that should do it."

"Hmm what? Oh sorry, thanks Mike."

Wilson raised an eyebrow at the listless reply. "You alright Carter? You didn't hit your head or anything else?" He did a second check of Carter's eyes.

"We can still take him to the hospital. I will ask the Kommandant," a worried Schultz put in.

"No, I'm fine. Really. I don't know what all the fuss is about."

"You sure Carter?" Colonel Hogan asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Honest." He still seemed subdued however, and Hogan shot Wilson a frown.

Wilson patted his patient on the shoulder. "Probably nothing to worry about. It'll be the shock wearing off. Why don't you stay here and rest for a bit?"

"Okay."

"Alright, now the rest of you," Wilson said, waving them out, "You've seen he's okay - maybe you can give me back my infirmary now." To Hogan he said, "Don't worry, I'll keep on eye on him for a bit. He'll be fine."

Hogan nodded, smiled at Carter and then started herding the others out. "You heard the man. Show's over. Let Carter get some peace and quiet."

The others waved to Carter and straggled out, reluctant to get back to work. "Go on, go on," Wilson repeated. "And would it kill you all to wipe your feet before you come in here? I just swept the floor half an hour ago."

"Would you like me to get one of them to sweep it again for you Mike?" As expected, the idea of more chores got the men moving. Hogan grinned, and then with a more serious look he nodded his head over to the door. Wilson joined him there.

"Do you think he'll be alright by tonight Mike? Only I had something planned." They both glanced over to the weary young man sitting on the edge on the nearest bed, but he seemed preoccupied and didn't notice.

Wilson frowned. "Is it anything strenuous?"

"No, more of a simple scouting mission."

"Couldn't you send someone else?"

"Well, it involves finding out whether or not we can use explosives and, if we can, where will be the best places for them - "

"And that's Carter's area of expertise. I see. Does it have to be tonight?"

"I can put it off if he's not up to it, but I was kind of hoping to get it done soon."

"Hmm, well, we'll see. Like I said, I'll keep on eye on him here for a bit. I'll let you know."

"Thanks Mike." Hogan left after waving to Carter and telling him to rest up. Exiting the infirmary he saw that Kinch and Lebeau had waited for him outside the door.

"Everything alright with Carter sir?" Kinch asked as he and Lebeau fell in step with their CO.

"I think so. Wilson's going to watch him for awhile. He's probably just shook up a little."

"What about tonight, mon Colonel?"

"Wilson's going to let me know. If Carter's not up to it we'll either wait till tomorrow or I'll send someone else." Hogan glanced around the compound, evaluating his men. He stopped for a moment, as if puzzled. He realized it was that Newkirk wasn't there, but shrugged it off. It wasn't that important. "Meanwhile," he continued, "I've still got the Bald Eagle fretting like a mother hen to deal with."

"He still going on about that storm?"

"_And_ the books _and _the Gestapo _and_ the price of electricity _and_ the Eastern Front; but that storm is really on his mind. You'd think the Krauts had never seen a bit of rain. He says it's time to 'batten down the hatches'. God, I know we're in trouble when he starts using English expressions."

"Ah, I'm _soooo_ glad I'm not an officer," Kinch laughed.

"Just wait Sergeant," Hogan threatened with a smile. "Just wait."

Carter didn't know what to do. Sure, lying quietly in the infirmary was a lot better than working on such a stifling day, and it was definitely better than working with Newkirk. But on the other hand, he felt guilty going nothing while the other guys were slaving away - like he was being molly-coddled. Also, he felt a bit uncomfortable being a patient. Wilson was a great guy and all, but being 'under observation' felt a lot like being under a microscope, even with Wilson at the table bent over his weekly reports and futile supply requests. And he was bored! He had lain there for an hour already. Bored, and with nothing to do but think over all that had happened that day. Like all of the things that Newkirk had said to him and how he had just let him get away with it. It certainly wasn't the most pleasant train of thought.

_Better not think about it then_.

Five minutes later. _Okay, I'm going to stop thinking about it._

Ten minutes later. _I'm not thinking about it at all._

After fifteen minutes he gave up. _Stupid Newkirk! What's his problem? Why's he acting like such a jerk? I haven't done anything wrong! Why's he yelling at _me?

_And why am I letting him get away with it? _He wanted to go back to the barracks and he wasn't about to avoid it just to avoid Newkirk. He jumped out of bed.

"I'm going now," was all he said to Wilson.

Wilson, surprised by Carter's curt tone simply said, "Uhh, sure," but Carter had already stormed out.

However, firm resolutions were not made for muggy days. Carter could feel his resolve being sapped out of him as he crossed the compound. The memory of how Newkirk had looked at him before popped into his head, furthering confusing him, and by the time he reached the front of Barracks Two his feet were dragging. So when Colonel Hogan spotted him and called him over he went happily.

"Are you feeling better Carter?" Hogan looked him over.

"Yes sir, I'm fine."

"Feel up to going out tonight?"

He felt ashamed to admit it to himself, but the idea of putting off the confrontation with Newkirk for another day made him sigh with relief. He agreed to go readily.

"You sure you're up to it?"

"Yes sir, I feel great!"

"Alright, but I'm going to check with Wilson first. And I'm going to send Newkirk with you." Hogan would later reflect that he had never seen quite such a dismayed look cross his demolition expert's face before.

"Anything wrong Carter?"

"Uh, no. I mean, it's okay sir, I can alone. I don't mind."

"I know you don't mind Carter, but solo missions have their dangers at the best of times and you've had a rough day."

"But sir, there'd be nothing for him to do."

"He'll be there to watch your back Carter. What's the problem?"

"Well, couldn't someone else go with me? Couldn't me and Louie go?"

"I need Lebeau tonight; I have to meet with a French operative. And the others are going to be checking out the new ball bearings factory. Besides, what's wrong with Newkirk?"

"Nothing, I guess." He looked at his shoes.

Hogan stared at his tech sergeant, who was suddenly displaying a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He placed his hand on the back of Carter's neck. "What's bothering you Carter? Did you and Newkirk have an argument?"

Carter was about to pour out everything when he remembered the pain in his friend's eyes. _He's hurting, and he's furious. _ With another sudden flash of understanding he realized something: _If the Colonel lays into Peter now, he'll leave._

"No sir," he mumbled. "Everything's okay. I'll go with Newkirk."

_Geez, what a day!_


	2. access to everything

_Introduction: Okay, sorry if the first chapter was a little hard to read. I must have done something wrong, but I was just so excited to finally post this story! (It's amazing how computer illiterate one person can be.) I hope you are all enjoying it anyway and - at the risk of sounding completely desperate - I'm begging for a review. This is my first story and thanks to my utter lack of computer skills, I've been sitting on it for a long time. I really need to know that someone other than myself has read it._

_Disclaimer: Please see chapter 1. This story is pretty big and I really don't want to have to re-type the same message over and over. Assume the disclaimer is for the whole story._

* * *

**Emanations of Hate**

**Chapter 2 **

The job, as Colonel Hogan described it, barely qualified as a mission at all. A contact named Heidemann had told them of a place on the other side of Hammelburg that he thought might interest the men of Stalag 13. An amateur but well-known naturalist, Dietrich Heidemann had been prowling the woods since just after the first war, and by this method had become an invaluable asset when it came to spotting hidden construction and other unusual activity. This time he had not only brought news of a new secret headquarters that the Nazis were building, but a location for the heroes to work from that was nearby the proposed site. He had brought word to Papa Bear with the idea that Hogan and his men would be able to cover the distance to the new headquarters easily, but when Hogan heard that the distance in question was less than a quarter of a mile, that familiar light, which his men met with either excitement or apprehension depending on their state of health, lit up his eyes.

"A _tunnel_?" his men had exclaimed as one.

"A tunnel," Hogan repeated, clapping his hands together. "Think about it. We build a tunnel right up to the site, they build their headquarters overtop and then we devise a secret way in and Bingo! We have access to everything!"

Seated around him at the barracks table were four very stunned, very incredulous men - gob smacked, to use a term of Newkirk's. Actual minutes seemed to pass while they stared at their leader.

"Look guys, I know there's some problems…"

"Like how we dig a tunnel that's a quarter of a mile long…" Kinch started.

"Right under the German's noses…" Lebeau continued.

"Outside of camp where we can't bring everyone…" Newkirk went on.

"In less than a month!" Carter finished.

Hogan's wide grin said, _'fellas, trust me'_.

"So, are there any other problems apart from the tunnel?"

* * *

Carter's job tonight however, was simply to look the place over. Hogan's solution to the tunnel question was that, as soon as possible - meaning before the place was swarming with Kraut construction crews and the general overkill of Nazi snoops - they would blast through a good part of the way, and then simply dig the last little bit when they felt safe and had a clearer idea of the layout. Heidemann, who knew a bit about geology, had already gone over the place and he thought it would be alright, but Hogan wanted to hear Carter's opinion about how exactly to go about it.

"Heidemann says it's mostly rock," he told Carter. "If we can build this thing we won't have to worry about cave-ins."

"I'll do my best Colonel."

"I know you will Carter, but look, don't tell me we can blast if we can't. It won't be your fault if this whole idea just isn't viable."

"Okay. But what are we going to do if we can't build this tunnel?"

"Don't worry about it Carter, we'll find some other way. And, if nothing else, we can always use Heidemann's abandoned cellar as a new stop on the underground. Now, I gave the directions to Newkirk and told him to do the driving, so you can take it easy tonight. So get going. Peter's already outside waiting."

"Yes sir." Carter said this with such a bleak tone that Hogan nearly pulled him back, but then he remembered that he wanted to talk to the others before he and Lebeau left on their own chore, and so let him go.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, anyone who would have bet that Andrew Carter couldn't go ten minutes without speaking a word would have went home with empty pockets. Other than Newkirk's impatient grunt for him to get in the 'borrowed' truck, they had ridden in complete silence; Newkirk staring sullenly at the road and Carter pretending to concentrate intently on the scenery as if Hitler himself might jump out from behind the nearest bush. When they parked on the back road Newkirk started into the woods at a quick pace without checking to see if Carter was following. Carter held his tongue and glumly fell in behind him.

The cellar, as Heidemann had called it, was under the burnt out remains of a house that had once belonged to a local scientist who was now a high up Nazi official and currently living in a much more luxurious residence. When describing the previous occupant Dietrich Heidemann's voice had managed to convey not only the idea that this "scientist's" methods were questionable at best, but also that his promotion was certainly not through hard work and diligence. However, Heidemann would not go into details and even the Colonel hadn't been able to get anything more out of him than the ominous statement that, "nothing could be proved."

Remembering this now, and the grim look that had been on Heidemann's face when he said it, brought a shiver to Carter's spine as he and Newkirk approached the clearing where the house had once stood. A few charred timbers were still standing starkly against the darkening twilight like large, black crosses demanding worship in some harsh, medieval church. Unconsciously Carter took a few quicker steps to walk closer to Newkirk, who had headed off to the northeast, towards a stand of dark pines where the entrance to the cellar was supposed to be located.

Just as Carter was about to ask if Newkirk knew what he was looking for, he saw the other man walk into a thick clump of bushes and bend down out of sight. For a moment he wondered if Newkirk was planning to jump out to try and scare him, but when he walked over he saw that the bushes were shaped in a ring and in the middle Newkirk was pulling at the handle of a set of wooden doors that reminded him a lot of the doors to his family's storm cellar back home.

"I wonder why they put the doors there. Why didn't they cut down these bushes some? And why put'em so far from the house?"

"Never mind that Carter!" Newkirk hissed. "Stop being such a useless sod and come and help me open the blasted things." Carter stomped over in righteous anger only to have Newkirk whisper harshly at him to keep the noise down. Together they wrenched the old and surprisingly heavy doors open, and found themselves staring into a well of blackness.

"You first," Newkirk said, as he waved towards the opening. Normally Carter would have replied with a sarcastic _"thanks"_, but now he was determined not to let Newkirk think he was a coward and so he cautiously felt for the stairs with his foot and started down, just managing to keep himself from turning on his flashlight until he was sure the light wouldn't be seen from the outside.

It was a steep incline, and it seemed to go on forever. As the two men walked further and further down Carter's curiosity grew. _Why would they build down so deep? It's more like a darn mine shaft than a cellar. _Memories of his father reading him "Journey to the Center of the Earth" came back to him, but those memories were suddenly more disturbing than comforting. _Didn't one of those guys get lost? _He tried to remember if the other characters ever found him. _They must have. Nothing bad ever happens to the good guys._

_Not in books anyway_, he thought ruefully.

_Oh stop it_, he told himself. _It's a straight tunnel. How can you get lost in a straight tunnel? All you have to do is turn around and go right back up. It's not a maze for gosh sakes!_ Still, he felt better - marginally - for knowing Newkirk was right behind him. Finally the pair reached the bottom and their narrow stairwell opened up into a much bigger space than Carter was expecting for a mere cellar. The ceiling wasn't that high, maybe a couple of feet or so above their heads, but the room itself was nearly sixty feet wide and nearly twice as long.

"Wow!" he breathed. "I thought we'd never get to the end of that! This place must be ten times as far down as any of our tunnels." Oblivious to getting nothing but a grunt in response he prattled on, walking further in. "And would ya look at this place! It's huge! Why would anyone do this just for a cellar? They would've had to blast all of this out! I mean, it's not like the war was on back then, they wouldn't have been using it as a shelter. Look! There's a door over there. Think there's anything behind it? There's nothing here." He was right; the only thing breaking up the cavernous feel of the chamber were the thick, square support posts bracing the ceiling. The young demolitions expert glanced up nervously, wondering if the ceiling wasn't quite as stable as it looked. Would a blast bring it down? Carter had been in a couple of cave-ins since coming to Stalag 13, and had even been in one during his time at Stalag 5, and had hated every second of it.

Then he noticed something strange; between some of the posts on each side of the room there were what looked like the remains of stone walls, as if both sides of the main room had been lined with little storage rooms.

"Cells," a voice corrected.

"What? Did you say something Newkirk?"

"Oh belt up Carter! Just see to your job so we can be out of 'ere," Newkirk ordered.

"What's your problem Newkirk?" Carter snapped back. "You've been yelling at me and insulting me for days now and I'm sick of it! What the heck is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"What's wrong with me?" Newkirk strode right up to him and started yelling right in his face. "You want to know what's wrong with me? _You're_ what's wrong with me! I'm tired of _you_!"

"Me? What the heck did I do?"

"You're just like all of'em! Always pushing! Always _around_!"

"All of who?"

"Americans!"

"Americans? What've you got against Americans?" asked Carter, slowly becoming more perplexed than angry.

"You know what I've got against Americans? You're all _over paid, over sexed and OVER HERE!"_ Newkirk spat out, poking Carter hard in the chest with each part, spoiling for a fight.

Carter stared at him, completely stunned. _Over sexed? _he repeated to himself. Baffled, wide eyes met furious, glittering ones for a tense moment. And then, with a growl of exasperation, Newkirk shoved Carter aside and stalked off to one corner of the room.

"Newkirk wait! What's wrong?" Carter's voice was concerned this time.

"It's useless…" he heard his friend mutter, keeping his back towards him.

"No Peter, you can tell me. C'mon Peter, what's wrong? What's bothering you so much?" Carter pleaded, walking over and grabbing hold of Newkirk's sleeve.

"Let go of me!" Newkirk shouted and ripped his arm away from Carter.

"Then tell me what's wrong!" A sudden thought burst into his head and was out of his mouth before he knew it. "Peter, is something wrong at home? Is there something wrong with your sister?"

"_WHAT?" _Before he could think Newkirk had grabbed hold of the front of the German uniform Carter was wearing, pulled him off his feet and thrust him hard against one of the pillars. _"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"_ Newkirk screamed at him, completely enraged, and knocked him against the pillar again.

"I…I just asked…" Carter stammered.

"What the 'ell do you know about my sister?"

"Nothing, honest! I just wanted to know if anything was wrong!"

"You leave 'er out of this! You leave 'er out of this and you keep your mouth shut or I swear to God I'll shut it for you!"

"I didn't mean anything by it Peter. Really! I was just trying to understand - "

"Well, that's the problem ain't it chum? You never understand anything! Don't 'ave the _capacity _for it. We 'ave to explain every bleedin' thing to you and you still don't get 'alf of it!" Newkirk pulled him away from the post and threw him to the ground.

"_That's not true!" _Carter jumped up and gave Newkirk a hard shove.

"It _is_ true and it's a right pain in the arse! We're all sick of it. All of us. You're so bloody thick we spent the first three months we knew you trying to figure out if you were working for the sodding Gerries, until we realized you were so stupid even they wouldn't want you." Newkirk shoved him back. "What good are you Carter? Blowing us up, getting us lost, pestering us with daft questions every five minutes. And you can never shut up! You'd think someone who ran on at the mouth like you would at least say something smart eventually! By accident if nothing else! Not you though, you're always putting your foot in it."

Carter stood there, trembling with rage and humiliation.

"You're useless Carter. I don't think I've ever seen such a useless sod as you."

"Take that back!" Carter threatened.

"But we won't 'ave to put up with you much longer," Newkirk continued, as if Carter had never spoken.

"What?" Carter gaped.

"Fraid so, mate." All of the resentment was spilling out of Newkirk in a gleeful rush. "The Colonel thinks you've cracked. Thinks you're getting a tad too fond of your little firecrackers."

"_HE DOES NOT!"_

"Me, I don't know why he's bothering. I mean, I could've told 'im you were a complete nutter five minutes after I met you."

"_STOP IT!"_

"But the guv'nor wanted you to make bombs. That's all you were ever good for. I didn't understand that either. After all, demolitions men are common enough, I never saw why we needed such a daft one. _Now_, though…well, let's face it, what kind of man is so obsessed with blowing things up? What kind of man gets 'is jollies from such destruction?"

"_SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!"_

Then Newkirk said something that would haunt him the rest of his life, but his tone was smug and gloating, as if he knew he was delivering the final thrust of the sword: _"Tell me Carter, do you even remember that you're blowing up people anymore?"_

He could see the breath leaving Carter's body, could see him take the slightest involuntary step back out of sheer shock, could see the questioning horror cross his face as he wondered if it was true. For the rest of his life Peter Newkirk would remember that look and feel such shame. But now, even as a tiny, niggling part of his brain gasped, almost sick with what he had just said, another part of him exalted in hurting someone - anyone - and he could feel that cruel grin still plastered to his face.

With a desperate, painful, cry of fury, Carter lunged at him, driving him to the ground. The younger man was fierce in his rage, but in his emotional state forgot everything he knew about defence and Newkirk was quickly in control, easily avoiding the worst of Carter's ineffectual blows. With a severe sort of satisfaction he pounded his fists into Carter's ribs. Carter made a quick roll out from under him and tried to get to his feet, but Newkirk roughly yanked him back down. Then Carter's elbow shot back and caught the dark-haired man right on the chin. It wasn't a hard enough hit to do any real damage, but it smarted enough to cause Newkirk's anger to surge further.

"You're going to pay for that, you are!" he growled and, pulling Carter up by his shirt, he swung Carter towards yet another of the sturdy pillars, causing Carter's head to strike the post hard enough that the younger man was dazed and fell to his knees.

This was when Newkirk was given a sudden inspiration. Only ten feet or so from the strange door at the back of the chamber, Newkirk rushed over and pulled back the giant cross bolt and slid the door open. Grabbing Carter, who was still on his knees and clutching his head in his hands, he then shoved the American inside and closed the door.

Momentarily stunned, the still wonky Carter stumbled to his feet. "Newkirk?" Realizing what had happened he rushed to the door and started pounding on it with his right fist. "Newkirk! Let me out!"

Nothing.

"Newkirk let me OUT!"

He paused to listen. There was nothing but silence.

"C'mon Newkirk! This isn't funny!"

_Did he leave? Did he really lock me in here and leave? _Despite what had just happened between them, trapped in the darkness Carter for a moment still couldn't make himself believe that Peter would really leave him here like this. _Probably outside laughing at me_. Overcome by a burst of rage and nearly crying with frustration, he started kicking against the door and pummelling wildly with his good hand.

"NEWKIRK, LET ME OUT RIGHT NOW! YOU HEAR ME? RIGHT NOW!" He yelled and shouted for a good five minutes to no avail, then he drew himself up and demanded in the fiercest voice he could muster, "CORPORAL, I _ORDER_ YOU TO OPEN THIS DOOR!"

Not a sound.

The failure of his order made Carter hope for a second that Newkirk actually wasn't there. The thought of him outside, laughing at him, deliberately disobeying him, made Carter feel foolish and helpless. Like he was nothing.

_None of the guys listen to me. They all walk all over me. Why am I even a sergeant? I shoulda told the Colonel to bust me down to private the last time he said he was gonna. That way there'd at least be an excuse for it._

He started kicking madly at the door again, without even thinking it would be opened for him. Then Newkirk's words came back to him, _"Tell me Carter, do you even remember that you're blowing up people anymore?"_

It was like a blow to the stomach. He sank to the ground, feeling like he might be sick. Sitting in the darkness, hunched against the locked door, he felt more miserable than he ever had in his whole life.


	3. intentions

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 3 **_

Pride may or may not be a sin, but a good argument can be made for it occasionally being a necessity. Thinking that he may be a poor excuse for a soldier and a weak man, (_and maybe crazy _came the dark and despairing thought from that part of our brain that seems bent on our self-destruction) Andrew Carter stood himself up with the idea that Newkirk might choose this moment to whip open the door and find him cowering and defeated on the ground.

After a few more moments he began to consider his situation. Taking a deep breath, he ordered himself to calm down. He might be a fool, he thought to himself, but he wasn't going to be a baby. Newkirk couldn't keep him locked up in here forever. Even if he had left, he'd still have nowhere to go but back to camp, and then Colonel Hogan would find out what had happened and he would make Newkirk come back here and let him out. _Probably make him apologize too!_

_Unless Newkirk didn't go back to camp. Maybe he's not going back! Maybe he's decided to escape! _ That made Carter pause for a moment, then he got a hold of himself again. The Colonel and the others knew where he was. If he and Newkirk didn't come back, the guys would come looking for them. All he had to do was wait. It might be awhile, but he could wait it out. He just had to sit still; he became determined that the others would find him calm and composed.

_Unless Newkirk goes back and tells them I got lost somewhere else!_

_No, I don't believe that. Not…not even after what he said. He couldn't stay mad that long. _But an ugly doubt sprouted at the back of his mind.

_What if Newkirk took the truck and escaped and the Colonel thinks I've gone with him? The guys will track the truck and won't come here!_

_No, the Colonel wouldn't think we'd run out on him,_ answered the more logical part of his brain.

_What if there's only so much air in here?_

Uh oh. He didn't have an answer for that one.

Suddenly the room felt very small.

* * *

Carter might have been relieved to know that Newkirk hadn't in fact been there when he had ordered the British Corporal to open the door. If Peter Newkirk had been asked when he had slid the bolt closed what his plan had been, he would have said that he only meant to play a joke on the younger man, and would have been surprised if anyone had thought any different. But the moment that that door was closed, a strange pleasure rose up in him. Unaware of Carter's pleas and unable to explain this smug and almost giddy enjoyment, he was nearly laughing as he started up the stairs.

Upon reaching the doors however, this feeling had subsided just enough to leave him feeling conflicted. The resentment that had been burning away in him for over a week began to feel _different_. It was still there, even stronger in a way, but if felt…_alien_. Two separate parts of his brain began to argue with one another. One part was just beginning to realize with disbelief the full impact of the things he had said to the man he considered one of his best friends. Horrified guilt hit him and he sat down on the steps just under the door, guilt which then fed the resentful side.

_Why should you feel guilty over that little sod? How dare Carter make you feel guilty!_

_But it's my fault! And why did I take it out on him? He's got nothing to do with it!_

_Sure he does. Do you think he's any better than any of them? Besides, he's an annoying, thick-headed, pain in the arse, just like you said. What's it going to hurt him to be stuck in there for a bit? Everyone will probably be happy to be away from the irritating little bugger for a few hours - they'll finally get some peace and quiet. Why not go get a drink? Better yet, why not leave for good? You're going to catch if for sure once that damn chatterbox tells Hogan what you did, and don't think he won't either. Why not go home? Back to England, back to Mavis. She's the one who needs you. You should have been there for her. And why weren't you? Because you were stuck here with these arrogant Yanks!_

He had actually pushed open one of the doors before the essential reasonableness and decency of his nature made him stop, but even though it was strong enough to keep him from leaving, it was still dominated by the anger which kept him from going back down to free Carter.

He sat at the top of the stairs for a good long while.

* * *

Convinced that Newkirk had left outright, a nudge of panic had brought another option to Carter. Despite thinking that it might be smarter to stay near the door in case Colonel Hogan and the others showed up, he decided to see if he could find another way out. The idea of managing to escape and making his way back to camp without having to beg to Newkirk was particularly appealing. He considered it a long shot, but the picture of lording it over the Brit that he couldn't get the best of Andrew Carter was enough to get him going, even compared to the thought of scrambling around in the dark and putting his hands on god-knew-what. _Pass the time anyway_, he considered.

Starting at the door he began to rub his uninjured hand up and down the walls. He even entertained a brief hope of hitting on a light switch, but then thought that even if he did there would be no power for it. Longingly he thought of his dropped flashlight. _Newkirk could have at least thrown that in here with me. _ Soon reaching the first corner - the room wasn't that big and he didn't know whether to be grateful for that or not - he turned and within a few feet hit a shelf. A bunch of shelves. He ran his hand along each one.

And nearly cried out with joy! _It couldn't be! A lantern!_ It was, and with its discovery he remembered his matches. He laughed out loud and then felt sheepish. _Geez, why didn't I think of those before?_

_Don't get too excited now. It probably won't even work, probably been down here for years after all. _But finding the lantern was the first thing that had gone right all day, a day that felt like it had already lasted about a million years and was nowhere near being over, and Carter seized on this small hope. Grabbing the matches out of his pocket, he fumbled his hands over the lantern and managed to get it lit.

Light shone out and Andrew Carter welcomed it with all the gratitude of someone who had been given sight after years of blindness. For a few moments he simply basked in the sheer comfort of its presence, and then, with the conviction of the newly hopeful he looked up at his surroundings to see…

Nothing.

Nothing of importance anyway. The room he was now in was relatively small and contained nothing more than the shelf case and a few odds and ends. Two more lanterns, a shoe that looked like it belonged to a child, and half a broken pencil were all that he spotted as he did a quick turn about the room. _Must have been just a storage room_, he thought to himself.

_But then why would they put such a big bolt on the door?_

Telling himself that it was probably because they kept something valuable in here when the place was in use and just because it wasn't here anymore didn't mean anything - like that there was another way out - and he wasn't going to get lucky twice in one night, he nevertheless started to examine the walls again. Holding up the lantern, which gave a muted, dim glow and smelt a bit funny to him, he went over every inch of the four walls. Getting no reward for his effort, he held the lantern up even higher and stared at the ceiling, even warily climbing up the first two shelves of the shelf case. He sighed. If there was a trapdoor up there he couldn't see it. _Probably couldn't get up there anyway,_ he reflected; even at the best of times he wasn't a very good climber.

With his previous hope diminished, he began to examine the floor with indifference. Even if he found something, he'd be going in the wrong direction. Eyes to the ground, he scuffed his feet along the floor to the far end and then back again. Despondent, he felt that sinking feeling that comes with giving that last little bit of hope up, when he happened to glance at the base of the shelves.

There was a line there. It stood out a few inches from underneath the shelf case and he could barely make it out. Bending down, he set the lantern on the floor and ran his right index finger over it.

_It's there! It's really there!_

He let out a laugh and jumped up. Moving the lantern, he struggled to push aside the shelf case and laughed again when it swung out like a door to reveal the outline of a square cut into the floor. He felt almost giddy. _I might actually do this!_

Gripping with his right hand he managed to pull the hatch up a few inches, and then, despite the pain, he gave in and used both hands. The hinges squealed, but it came open. Panting slightly, Carter smiled and then grabbed the lantern and peered downwards.

_Stairs!_

Carter hesitated. _Down won't get me out, and I really should stay in case someone comes for me. They might not think to look behind the door and I won't hear them calling if I go too far down. _Biting his lip, his glance travelled back and forth between the door to the main room and the hatch. In the end, despite knowing it might not be smart, he went down. Walking the room, looking for a way out and not finding one, had left him feeling very alone. Very alone and very isolated. Even more than showing up Newkirk, or showing the guys that he could take care of himself, he simply wanted to be out of there.

He started down.

* * *

It was an extremely narrow passageway - _guess that Schuler fella doesn't look anything like Schultzie, _Carter smiled to himself - but shorter than the one that had brought them to the main room. Still, it was long enough to the exhausted Carter. As he slowly worked his way down a steady stream of thoughts began to run through his head.

_Boy, I wish I was back home. I wonder what the guys are doing. Probably sleeping away; don't even know I'm gone. Well, they know I'm gone but I bet they sure as heck don't know about this yet. About Newkirk locking me_…But that made him think again about what Peter had said to him. Quickly he tried to shy his mind away from that thought. Stopping for a moment he felt a shudder in his chest, and after one soft sob escaped, he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth and forced himself not to think about it. Instead, he began to wonder when it was that he had begun to think of Stalag 13 as home. This lead to thoughts of his real home and all the things he wanted to do when he got back there. Things like riding his motorcycle, _in daylight and with no one trying to capture me or shoot me;_ like going for a walk in the woods, _in daylight and with no one trying to capture me or shoot me._ After each item his mind chorused the same phrase. Still, in a strange way, he started to feel better as all sorts of activities danced through his brain, activities that didn't involve darkness, and creepy tunnels, and always looking over his shoulder. He was becoming lost in his thoughts when a sharp, scraping sound raced through the darkness in front of him, just outside of the light cast from his lantern.

He halted.

_Just a mouse_, he told himself. _Just a mouse, or a rat._

He started moving again.

Coming to a landing, he saw that the stairs turned around. Carter judged that they would lead him directly under the main room. _What good will that do? _ Wondering whether or not to turn back, he then figured it couldn't hurt to go on. Soon that brought him to another door, much like the one Newkirk had shut on him.

He really, really did not want to open that door. He didn't even want to touch it.

The air around him, which had seemed simply stagnant before, felt oppressive and heavy now. Breathing in, his lungs felt thick, as if the murky air was filling them with fluid, and his skin felt grimy and almost sticky.

_You're being stupid you know_, he told himself sternly.

Still he didn't reach for the door. A palpable presence seemed to emanate from it, as if the door itself was alive. Standing there, he thought he could almost feel an energy coming from it; a thrumming that hit his eardrums but didn't quite register as sound. The longer he stood there the more he thought he could feel it vibrate through him. Suddenly there was a loud murmuring sound directly behind him. Sounding like a hundred voices talking all at once, they were noisy but indistinct; he couldn't make out a word. He jumped and spun around in surprise, but as soon as he did the sound broke off abruptly, so abruptly he would have sworn it had never been there at all.

His voice faltered, "N…Newkirk?"

Silence.

"Newkirk, was that you? Are you following me?" he called out a bit louder. "You're not going to fool me Newkirk. And I'm getting pretty tired of this." _Maybe I should go back up._

_To what? A locked door? You go up and you'll still be trapped and then you'll just have to come back down. _ Before he could stop himself he reached out and slid back the cross bar and opened the door.

* * *

Inside, Carter tried to convince himself that he had been foolish for no reason, but he couldn't seem to slow down his racing heart. Then his light flickered and dimmed. He froze, paralysed, his hand gripping the lantern's handle so tightly it left an indentation on his palm.

_Please don't go out. Please don't go out. I just couldn't stand it! Please, please, please don't go out! _ He didn't dare to breathe.

After suffering through an eternity, the light stabilized. _Thank you, thank you, thank you! _Then, shakily, he started looking around. What he saw surprised him to such an extent that he momentarily forgot his fear.

"An operating room?" he said out loud.

_A charnel house_, a voice answered, tickling his ear.

Carter let out a choked scream and whipped around, dropping the lantern which flickered wildly yet again.

"WHO SAID THAT?" he yelled. He waited and then - voice quivering - he said, "Newkirk, was that you?" A quaking hand reached out for the lantern.

"Look Newkirk, if that was you just tell me. I…I promise I won't tell the Colonel about any of this. Honestly. Just tell me if it's you."

Anger welled up in him when he was again met with silence.

"Newkirk, if I find out it's you…well, you're sure _gonna_ know I outrank you!"

_There's no one here. You're only jumpy because you're tired, that's all. There's no reason to be scared. No reason at all. _He did his best to steady himself and continued on with his search.

He turned around the room once slowly, the weak light of his lantern reflecting eerily off of the white tiled walls closest to him, but doing nothing to penetrate the dark corners and far reaches of the room. Once or twice the light caught on a metal surface, and the glint of it in the corner of his eye spooked him, making him think that something was moving around behind him.

_Maybe I should go back up. Hopefully the guys are looking for me by now! _ He realized then that he hadn't given a thought to his mission all night, and now he was so turned around he didn't know in which direction the Colonel had wanted to build his tunnel. _I'll just take a quick look and then I can tell the Colonel I looked all over._

He took a couple of steps forward and then stopped again, suddenly determined that there was no way he was going any further, not even for Colonel Hogan.

It was the smell. There was the faintest lingering scent of chemicals, a sort of harsh antiseptic smell, but it was the smell that was underlying it that brought him to such an abrupt halt. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew that he didn't like it. It was something a good hospital wouldn't want to smell like. _Iron? Meat?_

"Blood. Flesh," said an implacable voice and a cold hand moved up Carter's spine and grabbed hold of his neck. His heart seized in his chest, a primal and terrifying panic gripping him as it seemed to refuse to start beating again.

All around him were things he knew shouldn't be there. That _couldn't possibly _be there.

"NNUUUNNHHHH!" Carter half moaned and half screamed as he broke free and dashed for the door. Tearing out of the operating room and towards the stairs he could hear laughing. His breath came in huge, hitching gasps as he tried to race up the stairs as fast as he could. The feeling of icy fingers grabbing at his ankles, right through his boots, made him stumble and bark his shin. Letting out a panicked whimper, he frantically scrambled back up. He felt tiny brushes against his skin, cold and sticky like cobwebs, pulling at him. Swinging his lantern around him with a wild, convulsive desperation, he tried to keep them away as he ran. Unaware that he was sobbing, he shot through the hatchway of the supply room and rushed the door.

* * *

Boredom was what finally drove Peter Newkirk back down the stairs. Sick of the indecision between taking off for once and all and returning to Stalag 13, he reluctantly listened to common sense and came to the conclusion that if he was going to go he would have to tell Colonel Hogan first. Otherwise Hogan would have him up for desertion and he wouldn't even get out of Germany. Which meant that, for tonight at least, he would have to go back to camp. And to do that he would have to bring Carter back with him.

_And_ that meant that things were not going to be pleasant for him tonight.

So he had procrastinated, despite knowing that the longer he left that mug locked in there the worse things were going to be. Finally though, he had got tired of sitting there, not to mention a cold bum from sitting on the stone step. Deciding that it was time to face the music, he was still angry and resentful enough to be rebellious and he began to look forward to the inevitable confrontation. _Just let them try and start up with me!_

On the other hand, he realized he'd be working from a better position if he didn't leave Carter here. So he started down the stairs, basically indifferent to Carter's reaction to it all, and thinking far more on the argument facing him once they got back to camp.

At the bottom of the stairs he was met with a terrific hammering sound coming from the door he had closed on Carter. Instinctively he started running towards the door to free his friend, his previous anger evaporating. From the sound, Newkirk realized Carter was banging against the doors with both of his fists. _The daft bugger is using his bad wrist. He must really want out. _Then he realized something else: _Bloody hell, he's screaming!_

Carter wasn't just screaming, he was shrieking. "NEWKIRK! LET ME OUT! PPLLLEEASSE LET ME OUT! GOD, GOD PPLLLEEASSE LET ME OUT!"

"Carter, what is it? What's wrong?" he shouted.

"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!"

The English corporal had never heard his friend like this. Fear seized him as he grabbed hold of the cross bar and tried to pull it open.

"CARTER! CARTER! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" _Damnit, it's stuck!_

"NEWKIRK PLEASE! DAMNIT PLEASE! PLEASE LET ME OUT!"

Carter's swearing made Newkirk pull at the bar frantically. _Andrew never swears! Why the hell won't this blasted thing OPEN? _Everything took on a frustratingly desperate quality, like in a nightmare when you can't run from whatever hideous thing you know is chasing you.

_Or you can't get out of somewhere_, thought a stricken Newkirk.

Guilt frustrated him even more. He kept pulling even though his hands were being ripped raw. Furious, he pounded his fists against the door. _Damnit! Damnit! Why can't I get this open? I can't believe I trapped him in there!_

_

* * *

_

On the other side Carter was still screaming and flailing the lantern around as he tried to keep…_those things _away. The light went out, but in his terror he barely registered it. All he knew was that he had to get away. They pushed and pulled at him, playing with him, taunting him. They threw him at the door, knocking him nearly senseless.

"CARTER! What are you doing? Don't try to break the door down! You'll hurt yourself!" Newkirk shouted from outside.

_Newkirk! Newkirk's here! _Completely irrational, he didn't remember shouting for him just a few seconds ago. He tried to yell back, but instead he was slammed against the door once more.

A cold sensation went up his extremities, so frigid it burned, causing his muscles to cramp and the skin to pull. His stomach knotted and it became harder and harder to breathe; each breath only reaching his throat and then being expelled back out. Then, suddenly, it was like he had been hit with a wave, so hard and quick that he felt a surge of indignation, as if he had taken an unexpected smack to the face. His knees buckled and a knife-thrust of pain shot through his cranium. Abruptly, the whole building seemed to shudder with one massive shift as if an earthquake had hit, and then everything was silent. He slumped to the ground.

He thought he could still hear Peter, very far away, pounding at the door and shouting for him to answer, but it was unimportant now. Slowly the noise and light swam away and his consciousness retreated as his memories were encroached upon.

* * *

Newkirk had heard the thumps against the door. Logically, it was Carter trying to break down the door with his shoulder, but the picture that came to him was of Carter being _thrown_ against the door. _No, it must be Carter_. He yelled at him to stop it but there was no answer. _WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THERE?_

All of a sudden he was knocked off his feet as a large tremor shook the place, to be replaced with an eerie quiet.

"What the bleeding 'ell was that?" he demanded of no one.

He jumped up and yelled for Carter. When he received no response, he grabbed hold of the bolt and pulled with all his might, and was nearly off his feet again when it slid open without a hitch. Rushing in, he found Carter sprawled on the floor.

"Carter?" He shook the unconscious man by the shoulder. "C'mon Carter, what is it?" Bewildered, he looked around. There was no one in there but the two of them.

"Bloody 'ell Carter! Is this a joke? Is this some bleedin' joke?" Furious, the Englishman regarded the prone figure and noticed that he still wasn't stirring. He shook Carter again.

"Look, fine, I'm sorry alright. Is that what you're waiting to 'ear?" Concerned at still seeing no movement from Carter, anger turned to worry. He looked around nervously. _Did I miss something?_

"What'd you do Andrew? Get spooked and then knock yourself out trying to break down the door?" he teased, but he sounded very unconvincing to himself. He patted Carter on the shoulder, "C'mon now mate, joke's over. Time to wake up."

This time he was rewarded with a low moan.

"That's it. C'mon now, wake up. I want to get back to camp and get a few minutes sleep before roll call."

A slurred voice said something incomprehensible.

"Didn't quite catch that. You want to run it by me again?" Newkirk joked as he grabbed Carter by his upper arm and pulled him up to a sitting position. Apparently Carter did not want to run it by him again; he was staring fixedly at the wall.

"Giving me the silent treatment are you?" Helping the other man to his feet, he let out a resigned sigh, but one that also managed to sound extremely put upon. "I suppose you've a right to. But you had me right brassed off you know." Further thoughts about his own behaviour came to him, ones that he didn't particularly want to dwell on. It was easier to think it was Carter's fault. He tried to convince himself that he had just become a little more annoyed than usual. Perhaps he had done something a little bit mean in return, a little more than was called for, but nothing that was unforgivable. "If it makes you feel better," he continued, "I _am_ sorry. I shouldn't have locked you in here."

Carter turned his head to look at him. In the weak beam from Newkirk's flashlight the young tech sergeant appeared pale and clammy, but _smiling_. Newkirk's brow furrowed and he paused, inwardly pulling back from his friend. Carter's expression was wrong. The usually amenable countenance was composed, even controlled, and the smile appeared triumphant.

With a horrifying thump, Carter suddenly had Newkirk by the throat and had slammed him against the wall. Sickening pain reverberated out from Peter's spine and the back of his skull before he could even comprehend that Carter had moved. Flabbergasted, Newkirk saw that Carter had pinned him against the wall and half a foot off the floor with only one hand - his sprained left one. Choking, his blood thundering in his ears, he barely heard the cold and efficient voice that finally responded to his apology.

"I shouldn't worry about it too much Corporal. It's quite alright. Really, in fact, it was better this way."

The last thing Peter Newkirk remembered seeing before he lost consciousness was what was standing behind Carter.

He didn't hear himself begin to scream.


	4. seen and unseen

_I've got to thank everyone who has reviewed so far. I never realized before how great a feeling it is to get feedback on a story, or even just to know that someone else is enjoying it. Thanks so much everyone!_

**Emanations of Hate**_  
_

_**Chapter 4 **_

Tossing and turning in the sweltering heat, Sergeant James Kinchloe looked around the barracks. From the French curses above him and the way Olsen was kicking at his bunk, he figured everyone was having the same trouble he was. _Damn, and it's only six o'clock in the morning. I'm definitely going to be working in the tunnel this afternoon. _ Praying that the forecasted rain would break the heat, he sighed and got up. Might as well put the coffee on.

Placing the coffee pot - the real one - on the stove, he realized he'd have to light it. _Oh, I give up! _Instead, he settled for a glass of water and spotted Carter lying on his bunk with his eyes open.

"What time did you two get in?"

"A half an hour ago."

"That's rough. Get any sleep at all?"

"No."

Kinch frowned. Carter's voice seemed oddly flat. He was about to ask if anything was wrong, but was interrupted by Schultz. The big German waddled in, panting.

"Raus, raus." It was a decidedly lethargic wake up call.

There were protesting groans from nearly every bunk. Only Carter and Newkirk got up without complaint. Vaguely surprised, Kinch saw both of them sit straight up without a word, or even much of an expression of their faces.

Lebeau, spying Schultz in his heavy uniform, commiserated with the head guard. "Mon Dieu Schultzie, it makes me warm just looking at you."

Schultz melted down onto the bench at the table. Usually he went back outside for the five minutes given to the men to dress, but today that was beyond him. In a wilting voice he replied, "Oh cockroach, it is so hot! I do not even want to eat!"

"Oh my God!" Colonel Hogan said, entering the main room from his quarters. "The end may be upon us! Isn't Schultz not eating one of the signs of the apocalypse?"

"Please do not joke Colonel Hogan. It is terrible! I do not think I could even eat Lebeau's streudel!" The fat guard sounded so dejected that all the men burst into laughter. Or nearly all the men. Kinch's eyebrow went up as he regarded an unsmiling Carter and a silent Newkirk.

"Ha ha, jolly joke. You would not laugh if I faded away and some other guard came to watch you." The idea of Schultz fading away just made the men laugh harder, but Kinch clucked sympathetically in hopes of placating the put out Schultz. Appeased by this, and thinking he had made his point, the large man reluctantly hauled himself up and waved the men out for roll call.

* * *

Contrary to Kinch's plans, that afternoon he found himself with the other men of Barracks 2 on a work detail on a farm outside of camp. Weeding a large garden filled with stunted cabbages he wondered who in their right mind would ever willingly become a farmer. Straightening up, he decided to take a break and get a drink from the water barrel. Lebeau and Olsen were already there, unashamedly dawdling. Olsen handed him the cup and he nodded his thanks as he took a deep drink. 

"Boy, is that sun hot on my back!" Kinch exclaimed and scooped the cup in the barrel again.

"Yeah, it is warm," Olsen agreed.

"Oui," Lebeau said, but he seemed preoccupied. He was staring at Carter and Newkirk, still working in the carrot patch where they had been helping him.

"Anything wrong Lebeau?" Kinch asked, following his friend's gaze.

Lebeau shrugged and then shook his head. "Non. It is nothing."

The other two studied him a minute. "You sure?" Kinch prodded.

"You will think it's strange."

"No we won't Louie. Will we Matt?" Olsen nodded.

"It's just that it's…" he couldn't look them in the eyes.

"Go on Louie."

"Il fait froid." Olsen, not understanding looked to Kinch.

"It's cold?" Kinch said, surprised.

"I told you that you would it strange!" Lebeau said defensively.

"But Louie, how could it be cold in one part of the garden and boiling in another?"

"Je ne sais pas," Lebeau shrugged helplessly.

"Who cares about the how?" Olsen put in, "If it's true - "

"It is true!"

"Well, why aren't you enjoying it then? I'd kill for a bit of relief from this heat," Olsen argued. Both men looked at the Frenchman who was hanging his head again.

"I don't know, it's just…it's not a pleasant cold."

"How can any cold be bad today? C'mon Lebeau, if you don't like it, why don't we switch places?"

"No Lebeau, I'll switch places with you. I want to find out what's going on with those two," Kinch said.

"C'mon Kinch, it was my idea!" Olsen griped.

"Just for a bit Matt, then we'll trade."

"Oh alright. It's probably not really any colder anyway," Olsen said and strolled off.

Lebeau glared at the retreating figure. "Don't get huffy Louie," Kinch said. The taller man pointed back to Carter and Newkirk in the field. "Tell me something, have you noticed anything different about those two?"

Lebeau watched the two men for a minute. "They have been very quiet today," he finally said, "but that's to be expected."

"From those two? Quiet is the last thing I would expect from them."

"Well, I think they are fighting," Lebeau confided.

"Fighting? About what?"

"I have no idea, but I get the feeling Newkirk was the one to start it. Carter came to me a few days ago and said Peter was acting strangely. I did not think of it much until yesterday."

"Why, what happened yesterday?"

"I did not hear the words, but Newkirk was yelling at Carter just before he fell. And then, after you and Schultz took Carter to see Wilson, Newkirk was very angry. He blamed Carter for the accident, not Schultz. He acted like Carter did it on purpose to get out of helping him."

"That's ridiculous. Carter could have broken his neck."

"Don't tell me, mon ami. It was Newkirk who thought so."

"Okay. I guess I'll have to try and find out what's going on." The two men each took another drink and then went back to work.

* * *

Kinch understood instantly what Lebeau had been talking about when he joined Carter and Newkirk in the carrot patch. A bizarre chill touched his skin the moment he got near them. As puzzling as this was though, it wasn't what he had switched places with Lebeau to find out. He nodded a greeting to the two stone-faced men who looked up as he approached. 

"I thought I'd come help you guys for a bit. Lebeau said you could use some help because of your wrist Carter," he lied.

Carter glanced at his left wrist slightly startled, as if he hadn't remembered his injury, and then turned back to Kinch with a watchful expression. Kinch wondered why he hadn't tried to use it as an excuse to get out of the work detail. Then both men began weeding again without so much as a word; Carter making a point of doing it one-handed. Kinch kneeled down and got to work himself.

"So, how are you guys doing? Hot enough for you?" Kinch asked.

"Yes. It's very warm," Carter answered in the same flat tone he had used that morning.

"Hot enough to fry an egg on a rock," Kinch agreed, all the while thinking, _No it isn't. God, it's almost like I can feel the cold seeping into me._

For awhile no one said anything, they just took turns covertly watching each other. Strangely, Kinch began to feel that the obvious hostility in the air wasn't directed between Carter and Newkirk, but by the two of them towards _him_. He couldn't explain it, it just seemed to be in the way he could feel two sets of eyes simultaneously light on his back when he wasn't looking. He tried to make small talk and was astounded by how awkward it was. He told them about what Hogan and Lebeau had heard from the French contact the night before, about Hogan's plans for the ball bearings factory, he even talked about little things, like the volleyball game in the compound a few days earlier. Carter made short, one or two word answers if Kinch asked him a direct question, but made no return on these attempts of Kinch's, and initiated no conversation for his own part. Newkirk said nothing at all. Meanwhile, Kinch was working hard not to begin shivering. This chill was in no way an impression of the antagonism he was sensing. It was a damp, icy, November rain kind of cold - the kind that made you uncomfortable and restless unless there was a good, strong fire going. Whatever it was, it was making his joints ache and he got up, unable to stand it anymore.

"Well, you two seem to be doing alright. I think I'll go help Louie for awhile." All of a sudden it was all he could do not to _run_ off, he was so desperate to get away. He felt two pairs of eyes staring at him as he hurriedly walked to where Lebeau was working.

* * *

When the black sergeant had moved out of earshot, Carter moved closer to his companion. 

"I believe concealment may present a problem," he said quietly and matter-of-factly. He kept at his work, not bothering to stop and look at the other man.

Newkirk found himself unable to do anything but keep working. His eyes glittered as he discovered that he couldn't even raise his head.

"I know that you can hear me," Carter spoke again. "Unfortunately the others cannot suppress you in the same way that I can with this one," he continued, unconcerned with the helpless, blinding, fury being radiated at him, "so you are still able to understand me. I want you to listen closely."

_He sounds so smug, so confident that I'm going to do exactly what he says. _Newkirk's resentful thought was the first clear on he could recall having since the night before. Inwardly he was screaming. _Why can't anybody see this? Why isn't anybody helping me?_

The Englishman's head was jerked up involuntarily to meet an inscrutable look coming from the face of his normally transparent friend.

"Are you listening?" It wasn't really a question, they both knew he was. "This will not end until I get what I want - _so tread carefully_."

* * *

That evening saw an exhausted group of men recuperating in Barracks 2. Hogan, who usually accompanied his men on work detail, had been detained that day by paperwork and was now regarding them with some concern. Mostly they were simply too tired even for the usual complaints that came after a day of work detail, but he noticed that both Kinch and Lebeau were pensive. 

"So, anything happen out there today?" he asked.

"No sir, just your average, demented Nazi's idea of a holiday," Kinch answered. "Sunshine, fresh air, back-breaking-work-you-to-death labour. That sort of thing."

"Well, all of you can take it easy tonight. London hasn't got anything for us," Hogan consoled his men.

"Thank God!" Kinch exclaimed, and the rest chorused their agreement. "I'm just going to crash right out. Nobody wake me until the war's over." He went and stretched out on his bunk.

"Good luck trying to sleep in this heat."

The radioman groaned at this reminder. "Oh thanks, Baker."

"Speaking of heat Kinch, did you find Lebeau's cold spot?" Olsen asked from his bunk.

"Lebeau's what?" Hogan enquired. Suddenly everyone was staring curiously at an embarrassed Lebeau.

"Don't laugh Matt, he was right."

"Oh c'mon Kinch. Are you telling me it was nice and cool in the carrot patch?"

"Well…_nice_ wouldn't be how I would describe it."

The others broke in, demanding to know what they were talking about. Kinch explained about the feeling of cold both he and Lebeau had felt in that part of the garden, and how both had found it extremely unpleasant.

"That doesn't sound like a good sign," Foster said.

"What are you talking about Tom? You'd have to be crazy not to want a bit of cool air on a day like today," Olsen argued.

"My father always said that cold spots like that meant that there were spirits around," Foster explained.

"Ghosts?" The others scoffed and poor Foster was bombarded with the typical sentiments of reasonable, logical, mid-twentieth century thinking men, namely: _Are you kidding? _and _Crazy nut!_

"It's true! He said that a severe and sudden drop in temperature was "often indicative of a spectral presence." "

"So you're saying there are ghosts in Farmer Bauer's carrot patch?" Olsen hooted. "And the boogeyman lives in my mother's china hutch. You see any ghosts out there Kinch?"

Kinch chuckled a bit himself at the thought of a haunted carrot patch. "No, all I saw were Carter and Newkirk and a whole lot of carrot tops."

The others laughed while Olsen and Foster debated the idea of ghouls and banshees. Hogan listened placidly, letting them blow off steam.

"I wonder why Carter and Newkirk didn't feel the cold?" Baker mused.

"What?" Kinch turned to look at him. Nearly everyone else kept listening to Foster and Olsen, but Hogan and Lebeau looked their way.

"You said they were helping Lebeau and then you. The cold chased both of you away, why didn't it affect them?"

"You know, I never thought of that." He glanced at Lebeau and saw the same taken aback look on his face.

"Speaking of which, where are those two?" Hogan asked.

Tony Garlotti caught the question. "They went down into the tunnel. Carter said he wanted to work on something in his lab and Newkirk was going to help him," he said, then turned his head back to the main event.

"Newkirk was?" Lebeau was puzzled. He was sure they had been fighting, or that at least Newkirk was angry with Carter, but now that he thought about it, the two men had been together most of the day. The French corporal looked at Kinch, who shrugged.

Hogan caught the look between the two and made a mental note to talk to his adjutant about it tomorrow. The guys were starting to wind down, even drift off. Within a few minutes only Olsen and Foster's murmuring voices could be heard, bringing the major philosophical argument of life after death down to the level of "could not" and "could so". After even this tapered off and the room grew quiet, he went into his quarters for his own rest.

* * *

Much later, Carter, or technically the entity now inhabiting him, was still awake and pondering his situation. It was perfect in so many ways, but there were a few inconvenient matters. The restrictions placed on him by such things as work details and roll call, he would abide with for awhile; he was impressed with Hogan's organization and had no wish to see it ended, but time and location could become critical and then he would simply have to do what was needed. At the moment, the larger problem was passing himself off as the American sergeant. He wanted to make use of Hogan's resources - he truly could not believe his luck at finding all of this - and to do so meant that he could not raise anyone's suspicions. For something like this would have to involve men who knew how to keep secrets; who knew how to gather information. Men who would know - and need to be in control of - what was going on around them, and who would therefore be very sensitive to anything new and unexpected. 

The problem was that this Andrew Carter seemed to be almost the complete opposite to him. He was sociable and casual, addressing the other men by their first names at times, or even by nicknames. He was friendly with the guards. Of course, that would be necessary to Hogan's plans, but he could sense no animosity in Carter towards a good number of them. Examining Carter's thoughts on how the others saw him, he discovered that the men would expect him to be talkative, excitable and good-natured. Probing even further, he learned that Carter believed that his own friends considered him indecisive, forgetful, perhaps even stupid. He felt the young man's hurt at this. He also learned of Andrew's confrontation with his friend Peter. That he considered interesting, but of no importance at the moment.

No, passing himself off as the munitions man would be no easy task. True, he could stay down the lab a good deal of the time, using Carter's need to build charges for Hogan's tunnel idea as an excuse, but it was still unlikely that no questions would come up.

Clearly, diversions would be needed.

* * *

James Kinchloe was not one for nightmares, or even disturbing dreams. For most of his life, even during the hardest times, he had always slept deeply and well. If dreams did come they were almost always pleasant, allowing him to wake in that state of calmness that seemed to mark his nature. But that night was different. He was thrust awake, shivering and breathing hard, with no memories as to why, other than a disconcerting image of huge shapes looming above him and the feeling of something sickly sweet covering his mouth and suffocating him. By the time his breathing finally slowed, he had forgotten even this much and he soon feel back into a fitful sleep.

* * *

In the bunk next to Kinch's, Louie Lebeau was also dreaming. Writhing in his bunk, in his mind he was running. Running desperately, hopelessly, all the time weeping hysterically for parents that he knew had been dead for years. He awoke both angry at such a feeling of abandonment and helplessness and with an unexplained sadness that lingered somewhat longer than Kinch's fear. Deep down, it was still with him when he too fell back to sleep.

* * *

It was nearly morning and in his own bunk, Peter Newkirk was not asleep. Terribly confused, he felt like his brain was swathed in damp and mouldy cotton batting. His thoughts were sluggish, with only enough coherence to experience fear. He lay there, unable to think, unable to feel the hard boards and lumpy mattress beneath him, only able to feel the cold, watchful eyes boring into his back from man in the bed below him. 

_Why isn't anyone helping me? _echoed round and round through his terrified mind.

_Author's notes:_

1) Okay, the composition of the barracks as I've written it may be a little confusing to some folks. The thing is, I often find too many original characters in a story - especially if they become the main focus to the point where you don't see the canon characters at all - a bit dull. So I've thrown in a few of the show's recurring characters into Barracks 2 so that fans can get as much time as possible with guys they recognize.

2) Kinch's bunk: I know that sometimes he sleeps on the bunk above the tunnel, but I've also seen him sleep in another bunk across the room. I figure that if he knows someone is out, it's only logical to sleep here so that he won't be woken up.

3) The name game: I'm using James for Kinch. I have no problem with other people using Ivan, I'm only using James because it also happens to be my grandfather's name. I also have to say, I've always personally believed that the episode where "Ivan" was used was simply laziness on the part of the show's writers. In fact, I believe there's an episode called "Man in a Box" where Hogan puts a hand on Kinch's arm and calls him Sam, so if Kinch gets a middle name from me, it will probably be Samuel. As to the others, I think "Tom" for Foster has been used. I hope whoever did it won't mind if I use it as well. If it's you, and you do mind, please let me know. For everyone else, I used names I picked instead of what might be the consensus. Hope it's not a big irritant for anyone.


	5. a short conversation

**

* * *

**

* * *

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 5**_

The next morning's roll call was a slow and sloppy affair. The men could barely drag themselves out of bed, and they weren't exactly standing at attention as they listened to Klink droning on about the Third Reich's latest triumphs. Even Klink, lost in the recital of the favourite party line of Germany's inevitable defeat over the Allies, noticed the poor posture of his prisoners. This lead to a lecture on how the master race was naturally physically and mentally superior. Most days Kinch spent this time wondering if Klink knew how unconvincing he sounded; if he realized that the prisoners and probably even the guards could tell that the camp Kommandant didn't truly believe in what he was saying. But today Kinch just prayed for a minor disaster to hit and end it all, simply in order to get away. _C'mon, just one little earthquake. One teensy tiny little tremor to shut him up - I've got to get some sleep!_

Finally giving up even the pretence of listening, he started looking around. Everyone was sagging and dejected. Most of them had bags under their eyes. Kinch saw Baker reach over to steady a swaying Lebeau. He could feel his own lids drooping and felt worn out just trying to keep his head up. _What is going on? Why are we all so tired?_

If he hadn't been so exhausted he might have noticed that not everyone was tired. Beside him and in front of him, Carter and Newkirk were standing perfectly at attention.

* * *

Thankfully, there was no work detail that day. Grumbling and too wiped out to be grateful, the men of Barracks 2 filed back inside and almost to a man climbed back into their bunks. Hogan didn't even try to stop them.

"You guys have a party last night and didn't think to invite your commanding officer?" he teased.

"I wish sir," Kinch moaned. "I don't know what's going on. Must be getting old or something."

Hogan laughed and sat down at the table with a cup of coffee. "More likely it was Foster's ghosts giving you all nightmares."

Some unpleasant sensation twigged at the back of Kinch's mind.

Olsen snorted. "Foster's ghosts. That'll be the day."

"Don't give me that Matt. I heard you thrashing about last night," Foster retorted. "Look now, you're just as tired as the rest of us. Admit it."

"Hunnh," Olsen replied, none too articulately, and rolled over on his bunk and closed his eyes.

"Maybe he's right," Baker said thoughtfully.

"About ghosts?" Lebeau asked. Foster sat up hopefully.

"No, I mean the Colonel," Baker went on, not noticing Foster look at him dolefully and then lay back down. "About having nightmares last night. I don't actually remember having any but yet…I don't know, it's somehow _familiar _in a way." He shrugged, unable to explain it any further.

"I know what you mean Dave," Kinch agreed. Some of the others nodded. "It'd be weird though, all of us having nightmares at the same time like that."

"Well, whatever it is, you guys take it easy for a couple of hours," Colonel Hogan said, getting up. "After that we have to start taking advantage of the day off and get to work on a few things." From the response he got, Hogan suspected only his rank and his men's loyalty to him was keeping them from committing some major act of violence.

Or most of them. Hogan stopped when he spotted a preoccupied Carter sitting quietly, seemingly paying no attention to the conversation around him.

"Tired Carter?"

"No sir."

"That's good. I wanted to talk to you about what you found out the other night." Seeing the men relaxing, he gestured for Carter to follow him into his room. Once inside he had the younger man sit down.

"So do you think you can do it?"

"I believe so sir. But it will be more difficult than I thought."

Opening his mouth, he was about to ask Carter to explain, when he stopped, embarrassed. He found he couldn't remember what he was going to say. Trying to think, he suddenly couldn't even remember what they had been talking about.

"I sorry Carter, I've forgotten what I wanted to say."

"That's quite alright sir. I'm sure it will come to you." Carter looked at him evenly, unsurprised by Hogan's predicament.

Hogan peered at his tech sergeant for a second. It was as if, almost subliminally, he had noticed something wrong with the younger man, but then he went completely blank. Shaking his head, he finally managed to ask, "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"I don't believe so, but I will let you know if I think of anything." He sat without moving, waiting for Hogan.

"Alright Carter. That's fine," Hogan said with effort. "You keep working on it."

"Yes sir. I'll keep working on it. _In the lab_," Carter emphasized.

"Yes. In the lab," Hogan repeated. "Maybe you'll even need to go out of camp again," he heard himself saying.

"Quite possibly. I trust I have your permission."

"Of course Carter," Hogan answered, but his voice was hesitant and unsure. Carter stared at him for a moment, his face set with concentration. It cleared at the same time that Hogan stepped back, confused.

"That will do very nicely I think. I'd best be back to work then."

"Yes," Hogan, now feeling a bit more normal, said and then dismissed him. As Carter closed the door behind him, Hogan was startled to find that he must have been speaking to Carter and yet couldn't recall a single thing about the conversation.

_Must be getting old myself_, he told himself ruefully, and then forgot all about it.

Outside, Carter raised a hand to his nose. The other men, mostly dozing, didn't see him. Coolly peering at his hand, he saw two tiny drops of blood. He sighed.

_Damn. I'll need to have the others work on Hogan_, he thought to himself.


	6. blips on the radar

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 6 **_

It was all a joke at first, that was the thing. A series of practical jokes, had to be. Over the next few days strange things began happening in Barracks 2. Just little things, but weird. Things going missing, and then turning up in odd places, for instance. A pack of playing cards was found glued to the underside of an empty bunk. A letter Olsen had been writing to his girlfriend was found sewn into various pairs of the men's socks. Lebeau's best knife went missing and was finally found, after nearly an hour of increasingly impatient searching, when Baker happened to glance up and spotted it thrust into the ridge beam of the barrack's roof. Kindly climbing up to pull it out, Baker wondered how anyone had got it up there in the first place.

The obvious culprits were Carter and Newkirk. The only problem with that idea was that neither one of them were ever around to enjoy their prank. Still, each man considered, it had to be them. Everyone knew that the former magician loved a good trick, and everyone knew that Carter would always go along with him.

But somehow, no one thought of broaching the subject with the absent pair. It was as if they could hear the thought in the back of their brains, but it never occurred to anyone in their conscious minds to speak to them about it. Kinch especially would be overcome by a feeling that there was _something_ he should be doing _something_ about, something he should be investigating that had to do with Carter and Newkirk, but then his thoughts would simply stop and go no further. In a clear moment he might think that he needed to pay attention to them, but then there was no follow-up thought for action. Beyond this there was a casual feeling of unconcern, only briefly interrupted by sudden moments of overwhelming anxiety when he knew that something was terribly wrong and he couldn't comprehend why he was unable to react to it.

For the others it was almost as if Carter and Newkirk had been erased from their minds. They paid no more attention to the pair's presence than their absence. They took no notice of any differences in speech or manners. If asked, say by visitors from other barracks, such as Wilson who came to unwrap Carter's wrist, they'd answer that the two were working on a project; but they replied by rote, waving off the question while pretending to be engrossed in some chore or other, sparing no actual thought on their strangely behaving colleagues. A fact which none of them found odd. After all, the Colonel always had projects for his men to do.

And then there were the "ghosts". They all knew it was Carter and Newkirk of course, that was the joke, but they'd tease each other with the idea that the "spooks of Stalag 13" were out to get the unwary among them. Foster, already seen as openly believing in the supernatural, took the brunt of it and the good-natured Englishman was starting to get peeved. He may have believed in the idea in general terms, but even he didn't truly believe that his own barracks was haunted. As the men went about their more mundane housekeeping chores such as sweeping the floor and darning their socks, they started to embellish on the idea to pass the time, and, as it always does, the mention of ghosts quickly turned into a story.

Soon the story evolved; the missing objects were being taken by the angry spirits of the last war's defeated foes, seeking revenge upon the Allied air men for being on their home soil. It was just as quickly altered again for the benefit of Sergeant Schultz, who came in one afternoon, and despite previous declarations, managed to make quite a dent in Lebeau's strudel as he listened. When Olsen gleefully told him the story, with energetic additions from the others, the ghosts were still from the first war, but became the vengeful spectres of Germany's enemies, enraged at their having started a second conflict. Poor Schultz, who had fought in the Great War, came the closest to being frightened by these stories. He tried to laugh with the others, sure they were pulling his leg, but Lebeau noticed that he put his fork down and could eat no more of his favourite dessert. Peering at him closely, the barrack's chef saw that the large man had gone a bit wide-eyed.

"Don't tell me you're scared Schultzie!" Lebeau ribbed him.

"No, of course I am not scared. I am the head guard of the toughest prisoner of war camp in all of Germany," Schultz protested, then continued in a quieter voice after looking around nervously, "But you boys should not be talking of such things. Maybe you have poltergeists in your barracks!"

"Poltergeists? What are poltergeists?" asked a voice from behind him, making the tense Schultz jerk with surprise as Hogan entered the barracks.

"Oh, it's you Colonel Hogan! Poltergeists are noisy, mischievous spirits. They get into everything and play all sorts of tricks." Schultz glanced around and then lowered his voice to whisper a warning, "It is very bad to have them around. You should not anger them by making fun."

Hogan grimaced. This "ghost" business was wearing thin. "Worse to have around than Hochstetter and his Gestapo goons?" he asked.

Schultz took his point, but still flashed the American airman a reproving frown. After he left Hogan looked at his men.

"Alright, I think this had better come to an end. I know you're all just fooling around, and I know sometimes it'd be handy to have a fast way of getting the big fella out of here, but guys, we need him sometimes. We need to have him willing to come in here and willing to listen. Besides, once people get a story stuck in their heads and they keep repeating it, sooner or later they come to believe it. Sure, it's a joke now, but soon every single little thing will start to get attributed to the "ghost" and then no one will want to do their work because the damn place is haunted. So, we're all going to cut this nonsense out, _right_?"

"Yes sir," his chastised men agreed.

"And there are no such things as ghosts."

"And there are no such things as ghosts," all of his men repeated, even the ones who would have liked to have kept an open mind. Everyone knew by their Colonel's tone that only one answer was wanted.

"Fine. Now maybe things can get back to normal…" he broke off.

A pen had slowly started to roll across the table. Stunned eyes followed it as it progressed from one end of the table to the other and then fell off and rolled half way to Colonel Hogan's door.

"Okay, okay, that's nothing. Do you hear me?" Hogan cautioned his men. "It's probably just Carter downstairs blasting something and causing some minor vibrations that came up through the floor and shook the table."

"I think Carter's outside sir."

"Baker, I don't want to hear it. If it wasn't Carter then it was just a heavy truck driving by or something. The point is, I don't want this to be an excuse to start up with all of this ghost business again."

"No sir!" his men agreed as one. That ominous tone, the one that they could all recognize by now, was starting to edge it's way into their CO's voice, meaning that it was definitely not the time to argue.

"Right, I'm glad we've all agreed…"

This time it was his own door opening that interrupted him. They all stared at it as it then closed again.

"Probably a draft," Kinch offered.

"That's right," Hogan said. "And this is exactly what I was talking about before. We've been joking around about this subject for a couple of days and now we're starting to get jumpy for no reason. So, repeat after me: There are no ghosts here."

"There are no ghosts here," his men dutifully repeated.

"There are _no such things _as ghosts," Hogan stated.

"There are no such things as ghosts."

Hogan's door creaked open again.

"And none of you saw that door opening."

"And none of us saw that door opening."

With a high, piercing squeal, the coffeepot receiver in Hogan's office clicked on and the men all started at the sudden sound of Schultz and Klink talking to each other in Klink's office. The front door of the barracks suddenly swung open with a sharp bang and they jumped again. Hogan dashed into his quarters to shut the receiver off before any wandering guard outside could overhear.

As soon as he walked back into the main room it clicked on again.

He went back and turned it off.

It came on yet again.

"Oh, I give up!" he moaned, and then he glared at each of his men. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for all of this, but right now I don't care if we find it or not! I'm warning each and every one of you, if I hear one word about ghosts, ghouls, banshees or poltergeists, you'll be on KP till the end of the _next_ war. And that'll just be to start!" With this threat, he stormed off into his own quarters.

The men all looked at each other and then turned to the tall radio man.

"Kinch?" Lebeau asked.

"Guys, I think we'd just better get back to work and try and keep out of his way!" And saying that, he lead by example and fled down into the tunnel. Wisely, the others were less than a second behind him.

* * *

Later that afternoon Kinch and Lebeau were sitting outside the barracks when Kinch noticed Carter and Newkirk talking intently to Schultz across the compound. Or Carter was; Newkirk was hanging back a step. Again, that pesky feeling of anxiety spoke up at the back of his brain.

_My God, when was the last time Newkirk said anything? Three days? Four?_

Once more he seemed to hit that blank wall. A numbness descended on his mind and for a second he had no thoughts at all.

He shook the fog from his head and considered it a minute. _No, that's ludicrous. Someone would have noticed if Peter hadn't spoken in four days! I would have noticed! _Still…that jumpy, little itch wouldn't leave.

He frowned and watched the three men, noting a vacant look cross Schultz's face just before the pair left him. Poking a dozing Lebeau, he gestured for the Frenchman to look at them as they strode over to talk to Langenscheidt.

"Do you think there's anything different about those two?"

"Non, just Carter following Newkirk around like always."

Kinch sat up straighter and stared at them.

"What is it Kinch?"

"Something you said Louie…" Kinch strained to figure out what was bothering him about that picture. "That's it! Look at them, look!"

A confused Lebeau looked. "I don't see anything wrong."

"Watch. Who's in the lead? Who's doing all the talking? And I don't mean jabbering, I mean who's in the lead. It's Carter. Carter isn't following Newkirk, Newkirk's following him!"

Lebeau turned back to watch the two men again. He shrugged, "It's unusual, but what of it?"

"No! Don't you get it? There's something…" he paused. "Damnit! Why can't I think?"

"Kinch, are you alright?"

The taller man sighed with exasperation and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Louie, I just know there's something wrong but for the life of me I can't…Ouch!" Something had hit him on the top of his head. It felt like an acorn. "What was that?"

"I don't know; I think it fell over there." Lebeau got up and examined the ground a few feet away. "Here it is!" he cried, bending down to pick it up. Kinch saw him gawk at it. "Kinch! I think it is off the radio!"

"What! Let me see." Lebeau handed it to him. He was right; it was a small knob, definitely off of the radio in the tunnel. "How the hell…?"

"Kinch, you don't think…I mean, you really don't think there's…"

"Louie, don't even think it. I've got to tell Colonel Hogan somebody's fooling around with the radio and that's going to rile him enough. If he hears you blaming it on ghosts he's liable to go through the roof!"

"You don't think someone's really doing it on purpose do you?"

"What other explanation could there be? Really? Unless you're prepared to go to the Colonel and actually swear it's something supernatural."

"Non!" Lebeau shook his head, horrified at the thought.

"Maybe it's another joke."

"But who would do that? If one of the Boches had found that part - "

"I know, and when I find out who is messing around I'm going to wring their necks for being so stupid!" Hating himself for it, he glanced at the approaching Carter and Newkirk.

"Kinch no! They wouldn't do something like that! Both of them know better. Besides mon ami, we've been watching them talk to the guards all the way over there. How _could_ they have done it?"

"I don't know. I'm going to go check the radio to make sure there are no more missing parts, and then I'm going to have to speak with the Colonel. Keep an eye on them will you?"

"Kinch…"

"Please Louie."

Lebeau reluctantly nodded and Kinch went inside.

"What was all that about?" Carter asked as he and Newkirk came up to the barracks.

Lebeau hated the idea of not being candid with his friends, but he felt that Kinch would not want him to say too much. "Another prank," was all he said. Quickly changing the subject, he asked Carter to help him start supper.

"No, I have something more important to do," Carter said sharply and strode past him without looking back. Newkirk followed him into the barracks.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Lebeau objected, "I want some help with supper and it's your turn!"

Carter kept heading towards the tunnel entrance as if he hadn't heard Lebeau. Angry, the smaller man grabbed the demolitions expert by the arm. Carter whipped round and fixed him with such a cold look that Lebeau actually found himself taking a step backwards. Just as quickly, he watched Carter's appearance transform into one of fiercely controlled fury.

Carter stepped up to him. "I believe that I said I had something more important to attend to. Do you have a problem with that _Corporal_?"

To his surprise, Lebeau discovered that he was unable to speak. Carter wrested his arm from Lebeau's grip and continued on into the tunnel while he could only stand there in shock.

For a moment he had actually been _afraid_ of Carter.

Without a word of protest, and completely forgetting what Kinch had asked him to do, he started supper on his own.

* * *

_Author's note: Thanks again to everyone who has been posting such great reviews! And just to let everyone else know, I've changed my account to allow anonymous reviews. (I'm an incredibly lazy person myself, and I have great sympathy for those of you who don't want to log on, but I've also turned into a review junkie so I'd love to hear from you!)_


	7. approaching

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 7**_

Sergeant James Kinchloe breathed a tremendous sigh of relief when he saw that the underground radio set appeared to be perfectly intact. Well, nearly perfectly. Giving it a quick once over, he soon discovered where the missing knob fit and re-attached it, and then powered the set up for a test. _Sure, it looks fine, but better check it out fully before I speak to Colonel Hogan_. He prayed that this was only a joke, or even better, a simple, easy to explain freak occurrence, and _not _outright sabotage.

He monitored different frequencies for a minute or two, and then decided to contact Jelly Roll, the head of the underground unit that was accompanying them to blow up the ball bearings factory that night. Getting through to them without a problem relieved him greatly. After confirming their meeting place and time, he was about to sign off when he was suddenly accosted by the sound of what he would have sworn were dozens, even hundreds, of voices roaring directly into his ears. Hissing with pain, he ripped the ear phones from his head. All that could be heard now was the one worried voice of Jelly Roll's radio man coming through, asking if everything was all right.

"Repeat, are you there Papa Bear? Come in Papa Bear!"

Kinch replaced the headset and swiftly reassured his counterpart on the other end. "Sorry about that. We're fine here."

"What happened?"

"Didn't you hear it?" Kinch asked.

"Hear what? We were talking and then you fell silent."

"There were voices on this end. I'm going to sign off in case someone's trying to tap in somehow."

"Wait! Do you think they intercepted the message?"

"I don't know, I'll have to speak to Papa Bear. Just to be safe, make it the back-up meeting place tonight. You know the one? Ask Jelly Roll if you don't. If Papa Bear wants some other location I'll get in touch with you. "

"Yes, I know the one. We'll wait to hear from you. Over and out."

"Over and out," Kinch repeated. After he had signed off, he mulled over his options. Obviously he was going to have to report all of this to the Colonel, and soon, but before he mentioned strange voices coming over the radio he thought that it might be wise to have some back-up, especially considering the Colonel's present mood. He ran off to track down Baker.

* * *

"Voices?" David Baker gave the senior radio man a quirky smile, "Kinch man, no offence, but aren't we supposed to hear voices on the radio?"

"Baker, just listen alright!" Baker immediately grew serious; he could tell that his friend's usual patience was wearing thin. "If you hear them, you'll know what I'm talking about. They're just _wrong _somehow."

"Wrong?"

"I can't explain it any better than that Baker. Like I said, just listen."

Baker nodded, put the headset on and started monitoring the frequencies the same way Kinch had done only ten minutes earlier. Getting nothing at first, he could see Kinch's look of frustration and disappointment.

"Sorry Kinch."

"Keep at it Baker, please. It didn't happen to me until I was actually talking with someone, but I can't have you contact anyone in case the goons are listening in."

Baker shrugged and continued to check. Suddenly he heard them. Startled, he nearly threw the headset against the wall.

"You heard them?" Kinch asked excitedly.

"Yeah!" breathed an awed Baker. "I get what you mean Kinch. That's just plain weird! I mean, it's like they're whispering, but they're so loud! Almost as if they're right here in the room with us and not coming over the radio. And there's so many of them too."

"I know. It's like a giant crowd scene in a play or a movie, with everyone speaking at once so that you only get a word here and there."

"And it's not just that either, they sound…well, I don't know, they sound…"

"Malevolent."

"I don't know if I could have come right out and said it, but yeah. Now I know what you meant when you said you couldn't explain it. There's nothing specific, but you get the impression that it's…wrong. Like they're not real voices. Like you shouldn't _be able _to hear them."

"I know, but can you imagine me going to the Colonel with that?"

"Kinch buddy, I don't envy you."

"I've got to tell him about the voices, and I'll tell him that we both heard them, but I don't think I'll mention how they sound. After all, maybe it's nothing. Maybe it really is the Germans trying to tap in."

"That's nothing?"

"You know what I mean. They just sounded so strange, I had to know if they were really real or not. I thought I might be cracking up."

Baker covertly glanced around, and then looked his friend in the eye. "Kinch, what do you think is going on? I mean, really going on?"

"What do you mean exactly?" Kinch asked, although he had a good idea of where Baker was going with this.

"Do you think it's sabotage? Or do you think it could be something else?"

"And by something else you mean…?" Kinch saw the other man hesitate slightly and take another quick glimpse around to see if anyone was listening, but where most men would have been sheepish and reluctant to say the word, Baker was honest and even curious.

"Ghosts."

"Ghosts? You're really saying ghosts?"

"Yep, I'm really saying ghosts," Baker replied. "Look, I'm not saying I believe in them, or that there are any here, but let's face it, things have been happening that make me want to at least think about what Foster's been saying."

"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for everything," Kinch said.

"Sure, but all I'm saying is that maybe we should be covering all the bases. Besides, who's to say that ghosts _aren't_ logical?" Baker argued. "When I was in high school I had a science teacher who warned us about thinking that all the things we know now are absolute fact and won't ever change. He said that science is a _method_, and that because of that the facts themselves are always changing. He told us the story of how two thousand years ago Aristotle said that the sun moved around the Earth, not out of vanity, or not just vanity anyway, but because the facts backed him up. He argued that the Earth couldn't be moving because when you threw something into the air, it came down in the same place. But the Earth is moving and objects come down in the same place because of something to do with inertia. I don't remember exactly, but the whole concept of inertia was hundreds of years into the future."

"Baker, what are you getting at?"

"From what Aristotle knew at the time, logically he was right. But there are always going to be things we don't know. Maybe ghosts do exist, and maybe there are scientific facts to explain them, but we just haven't learned them yet and so we've got to take it on faith. Not let our ideas of what's logical keep us from seeing what actually _is_. It's not as if the sun went around the Earth until we figured out that if couldn't. It always did. We just couldn't see it at first. Who's to say there aren't ghosts _and_ that they're perfectly logical?"

"That's all very interesting, but I'm still not going to be the one to tell the Colonel that the place could be haunted. I'll tell him what's happening, but I think I'll leave it to you to convince him that he should keep an open mind."

"I'm not his second in command."

"No, but you're the one talking about Aristotle and the changing nature of scientific facts." With that, Kinch started to head off to speak to his commanding officer.

"Kinch?" Baker called to him, "I know it sounds crazy, and in a way I was just kicking the idea around for fun, but all of a sudden I've got a really bad feeling that this is something we're going to have to consider. And if we don't, we're going to miss something important and who knows what kind of trouble we'll be in then."

The two men gazed at each other and Kinch could see that his friend was perfectly serious. A cold feeling of premonition tickled at his brain. Baker was right. He knew that Baker was right. He knew that even right now, they were missing something important, overlooking some vital sign that something was wrong.

But how to say that to Colonel Hogan? Remembering a few days ago when he had laughed about how glad he was that he wasn't an officer, he reflected that at this particular moment, being a sergeant wasn't a barrel of laughs either. _Mom always said that what goes around comes around._

He went to find his Colonel.

* * *

To say that it was a difficult conversation would have been an understatement. Kinch began with the facts; that one of the knobs off the radio had been removed and then tossed around outside, and that both he and Baker had heard strange voices on the radio. This put the already stressed Hogan in a vile mood. Immediately seeing the possibility of internal sabotage, he grilled his adjutant over all the facts he could remember.

In the end, Kinch didn't bring up the idea of supernatural interference. After all, he told himself, nothing had really happened that couldn't be explained more easily by natural events. What evidence was there for anything else? Strange feelings and Baker's argument to consider all possibilities. Neither of these were reason enough to further aggravate Hogan with absurd suggestions, especially when they'd be leaving soon to meet with the Underground. It was easy to tell himself that bringing up the idea of spectral forces would be pointless. Hogan was right. If the men got to thinking that ghosts were at work and blaming spirits for every little accident, then they wouldn't look for the real culprit and that could be disastrous. Vowing to get to the bottom of this, the two men filed out for evening roll call and then got ready for their mission to the ball bearings factory. Kinch convinced himself that he was right not to say anything, that bringing up the subject was not only pointless, but could be destructive to the whole operation.

Yet, he couldn't help but feel that he had chickened out somehow.

* * *

"Carter" was not having a good day of it. He had interrogated the guards, as well as giving them a quick mental ransacking, and uncovered nothing. Along with Newkirk, he had escaped to town to search through newspapers and various records, and to quiz a few key people. However, other than one article describing his prey in glowing - but maddeningly unspecific - terms, he had again found nothing. Nothing! Already frustrated by his lack of progress, reading the praise that had been heaped on that psychopathic degenerate and his "work" by the Nazi propaganda machine absolutely enraged him. People avoided him on the street. Had the others not had Newkirk under control, he was sure the Englishman would have bolted at the first opportunity. Knowing that he could not return to camp before he had got a hold on himself - even given his abilities, it would simply be impossible to disguise his fury and pass himself off as the agreeable American - he stalked through the streets of Hamelburg.

There was one option, but it was a gamble. A slight one, but still… He had once known a man that _may_ have kept an eye on things. And from the young man's mind, he knew where the man lived and that he was well acquainted with Hogan and his men. Going to him first undoubtedly would have been the simplest solution, but the truth of the matter was that he had no wish to see this man; indeed the emotional repercussions from their last meeting might prove to be an ugly distraction. Deep down, there was also a thought that he refused to acknowledge, that by seeing this man his resolve might waiver. However, he was getting nowhere with his search and he realized that he might have no other recourse. Should he seek him out now? If he did, he would miss evening roll call. This would cause a few problems, and if his friend did not have the information he sought, he could find himself greatly inconvenienced for nothing. Being locked in the cooler or hunted by the Germans as an escaped prisoner could only slow him down, and time was pressing.

Suddenly he came to a halt as his vision blurred. He swayed a bit on his feet and, despite assistance from the others, he felt the Englishman's mind become momentarily stronger. Hissing fiercely, he concentrated and regained control.

Yes, time was definitely pressing.

* * *

To Hogan's relief, the mission had gone off without a hitch. They had left a bit early and stopped at the alternate spot. Luckily Jelly Roll and his people had been there waiting for them. On the way back they covertly checked over the original meeting place for any signs that someone had been there, but they didn't find anything. _So where does this leave us? _Hogan wondered. _Were there voices? I can't believe that either Kinch or Baker would make a mistake like that, let alone both of them. So who were they? And what did they hear? Was it just a trick or will the Krauts be waiting for us the next time? After all, Kinch just confirmed the meeting place and time with the Underground, not the mission itself. Once the meeting place was changed to a place they didn't know they might not have bothered to come here, and they wouldn't have known where we meant to go after. But what about next time? We can't maintain radio silence forever._

Cursing under his breath, Hogan prayed that all of this was only some stupid practical joke. Not that he wouldn't rip the heads off the culprits when he found them. Heading in the direction of the tree stump, he swore to himself that he would find some way of sending them to the Russian front, whoever they were.

Exhausted, he paused for a moment behind a tree while Kinch climbed into the tunnel. Glancing around, he looked out at the horizon and nearly jumped out of his skin. He was surrounded! Stumbling back, he tripped over the roots of the tree and fell on his rear. Hundreds of stock still figures were looming over him in the passing searchlight. Lit from behind, he could only see them as outlines, shadows without faces. Staring at him intently. And then, as the light passed away, they were absorbed back into the dark and were gone when the light returned.

Hogan sat there on the ground, mouth open, not breathing. He nearly had a heart attack when he heard Kinch hissing softly for him, wondering where he was. Feeling foolish, he told himself it was a case of stress, and climbed into the tunnel more ready than ever to clobber the very next person to bring up the word "ghost".

* * *

There was still an hour or so until morning roll call, yet upon their return, Kinch and Hogan found Foster and Lebeau up and sharing a pot of coffee. They claimed insomnia, but Kinch had a better idea of what was going on. Hogan was not pleased. Telling them he needed a fully rested team, he ordered them to put the coffee down and get back to bed, and then marched off to his own quarters.

"Insomnia, eh? The Colonel's right, the coffee isn't going to help any," Kinch told the chagrined pair. However, he understood. In spite of his own fatigue, he felt an inexplicable reluctance to sleep. He would have rather stayed up with a dose of caffeine as well.

The American sergeant examined the two men closely. They had put their cups down, but had made no move to return to their bunks. "Nightmares?" he asked.

"No," Foster responded, "At least not any that I can remember."

"Lebeau?"

"No, or like Foster, none that I can remember."

Kinch thought about this and wondered if Hogan was having any trouble sleeping. His CO's usual humour had been missing for more than a few days, and it was becoming more and more obvious that he was straining to keep his temper in check. Of course, Hogan had had a fair bit to worry about lately, not the least of which was a possible turncoat among his men. Thinking how good a cup of coffee would go down now, he shook his head. Orders were orders. Waving the other two off to bed, he turned in himself.

* * *

On the lower bunk by the window, "Carter" had listened to every word. Unwilling to let himself sleep, there was little else to do but think. At first he had been able to function by his own energy alone, even feeding it into the young man's body when necessary. After he was no longer capable of that, he had began to draw on the body's amounts of reserve energy, but that too would soon cease to be an option. He himself was beginning to feel the limitations of this body's growing weakness. But what could he do? Letting himself sleep was out of the question, but that took an even greater toll on the body, and five nights awake combined with a constant overdose of adrenalin was causing enough queasiness to keep him from eating as well. With an inward sigh of regret, he remembered the enjoyment he had experienced dining on the Frenchman's meals that first day. Such a pity to no longer be able to eat! He spent a frivolous moment wondering what the small man could do with a truly good kitchen and more abundant ingredients.

He cursed himself. Food was unimportant; completely irrelevant to his task. A decision was what was required. Logically, he would be discovered soon. Great energy was required to confuse the minds of the men around him, and the others simply could not work through the English corporal the way he could through the American. No single one of them had the strength to subdue Newkirk, and even together they could not control him to the point where it would be safe to allow him to interact with the others. Beyond simply manual tasks, the most that they could do was to keep him from interfering. The others that were free could provide the occasional diversion, but all of the mental "persuading" rested with him. How much longer could he keep them from seeing that the Englishman was not speaking, that he himself was not eating, that neither of them were sleeping? How much longer could he keep them from noticing the vast differences in his speech patterns from that of their friend? Before they asked about the charges he was supposedly building for Hogan's tunnel? Even with the distractions provided by the others he could not hold out for very many more days. There were simply too many of them and too many differences to hide. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and was displeased to feel a hot wetness gushing from his nose. Without having to look he knew what it was; he could certainly recognize the scent of blood by this time. The pertinent question thus became clear.

How much longer could he go on before this body gave out?


	8. the increasing arc

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 8**_

The mood in camp was decidedly ugly the next day. The humidity was oppressive and the men were worn out from fitful nights of tossing and turning, trying to escape nightmares they had no memory of. Even Klink sensed that his surly prisoners were not about to stand through another lecture on the glorious victories on the Reich and dismissed the men as soon as the count was over. As many men as Hogan would allow fled into the tunnel system in hopes of finding some relief from the heat, only to find that it wasn't much better.

Kinch and Baker made a half-hearted attempt to figure out the problem with the radio, but both found that they were having trouble concentrating. Every couple of minutes one would turn his head, distracted by some strange noise. When the other would give him a questioning look, he would turn back to his work and pretend he hadn't done anything at all.

Finally Kinch could stand it no longer. As soon as Baker turned his head again, Kinch demanded, "What Baker? What is it?"

"Nothing."

"What is it?" he snapped. "What do you hear?"

"Kinch, I'm just not sure! It sounds like kind of a scraping or grinding, but I can't figure out where it's coming from. I don't like it! I don't know why, but it's grating on my nerves. And what really gets to me is that it's reminding me of something, but I can't put my finger on it. Are you hearing it?"

"No. No scraping, but I am hearing a dripping sound and it's doing the same thing to me. I keep telling myself it's just some pipe sweating, but that's not it, I know it. It sounds like water dripping into a frying pan and I don't know why that should disturb me but it does."

At the back of his brain flashed the image of blood dripping into a surgical pan.

_Where in the hell did that come from? _Before he could lose the thought, he turned to Baker and asked him a question. "Dave, that scraping sound? Does it remind you of a hospital in any way?"

Baker stared at him. "How'd you know that Kinch? Just after I said it, I had a picture of something scraping on bone. Something like a scalpel or chisel or some other medical instrument. Why would I be thinking of that? I've never even heard that sound."

Abruptly the two radio men were interrupted when Lebeau came tearing through the tunnel. Rushing about from side to side, he was practically raving.

"Lebeau, what is it?" Worried, the pair quickly chased after the Frenchman.

"Where are they Kinch? I can't find them! I can hear them but I can't find them!" His voice was ragged and he was nearly sobbing.

"For God's sake Lebeau, hear who?"

"I don't know!" he wailed. "I hear them crying but I can't find them!" He stopped and began helplessly wringing his hands. Then, spouting off in such rapid-fire French that even Kinch didn't catch any of it, he started off again. Horrified, the taller man swiftly grabbed hold of him and pulled him over to a chair and forced him to sit down.

"Calm down Louie. Tell us what you're hearing."

"I'm sorry, but it is _horrible! _It won't stop! Why won't it stop?" he pleaded with Kinch as if his friend could make it stop for him.

"But what is it Louie? You still haven't told us."

"Crying! I cannot get away from it! Everywhere I go I hear little children crying! It is terrible - they are so desperate! I know they need help, _but I can't find them!" _Teeth clenched, he pounded his fists on his thighs in frustration.

"Where did you hear this?"

"In the bunk room we built for the escaping prisoners we have to keep for awhile. Colonel Hogan said we might have some coming in soon, so I thought I would clean it."

"Okay, I'm going to go check it out. Are you still hearing them?"

"A little," he admitted. Kinch could see him still glancing around a bit nervously, but he was getting himself under control.

"Why don't you go up top with Baker and have some coffee or something? Take it easy for a few minutes."

"You do not believe me, do you mon ami?"

"Actually Lebeau, I do."

"So do I," Baker added.

Lebeau looked them both in the eyes; they seemed perfectly serious. "Alright Kinch, I will do what you say." He gave them a weak smile, "Who knows? Maybe I am simply overtired."

"That's right Lebeau, maybe that's all it is," Baker agreed. "C'mon, some coffee will fix you right up." The junior radio man looked to Kinch to back him up.

"Yes, possibly," Kinch said without much conviction. He was staring distractedly over towards the bunk room.

Baker raised an eyebrow, then helped Lebeau up. "I think maybe we'll get you that coffee now," he said and began to tug Lebeau towards the exit.

"No, wait!" Lebeau halted. "Do you really believe me Kinch?"

Just as he asked, the light in the room started to waver. As one, the three men looked upwards. The light bulb, dangling from it's wire, was swinging back and forth. Enrapt, they watched as slowly, eerily, with each pass, the arc of it's swing _increased._

"Louie," Kinch replied in a hushed, barely audible whisper, "I _really, really _do."

"Kinch?" Baker asked, "What do you think we should do?"

"I think we have to investigate what Lebeau heard in the bunk room." He felt the Frenchman tense beside him. "Louie? You want to do this? We won't blame you if you'd rather go upstairs."

Lebeau took a deep breath and pulled himself up straight. "No, I'll come."

"You sure? Really, we won't think any less of you," Kinch said. Baker nodded in agreement.

"No. I need to know Kinch."

"Alright." He lead the other two men off to the bunk room.

* * *

When they reached the cramped quarters that they had built for escaping prisoners on their way through the underground, the two taller men stopped in their tracks, stunned by what they saw. Lebeau, caught behind them, demanded to know what was wrong. Getting no answer, he pushed between them and then swore passionately.

"What! What is this? I did not leave the room like this!" Furious, he grabbed some of the debris strewn about the floor and then threw it back down again just as angrily.

"I can't say I think much of your cleaning technique Lebeau," Baker tried to joke. "Looks like one of Carter's explosions blasted through here!"

"I did not do this!" Lebeau cried out. He strode up to Baker and glared at him. "Why would I do this? Do you think I like cleaning so much I wanted to do it again?"

"Calm down, calm down. I didn't mean it! Of course I don't think you did it!" Baker protested.

With effort, Lebeau got himself under control. He turned towards his other friend. "Who would do this Kinch? I had everything tidy. Who would play a trick like this?"

"I think the question is: _who_ _could_ _do this?_"

"You mean who had the opportunity?" Baker questioned.

"No, I mean who could do this in the five minutes we were talking to Lebeau, without us hearing them?"

The bunk room door suddenly slammed shut with a bang so loud Kinch would have sworn the Krauts up top would have been able to hear it through the ground. Together the three men leaped for the door and tried to pull it open. For all it budged, they could have been trying to pull open part of a rock wall.

"This is ridiculous! There's no lock on this door and it can't be _this_ stuck!" Kinch exclaimed. "You two stand back. I'm going to try and break it down." When they were out of the way he flung himself at the door, his full weight behind his shoulder. Instead of the splintering crack they expected, Kinch hit with a thick, fleshy thud, stumbled back a few steps and fell to the ground. Lebeau rushed to help him up and Baker examined the door.

"Well?"

"Nothing! Not a break, not a crack, nothing. The thing didn't shift an inch!"

"That's impossible! It's just a wooden door for God's sake!" Kinch was on his feet but rubbing the top of his arm. _Man, that's going to bruise._

"See for yourself," Baker waved at the troublesome door.

Kinch swore as he examined the completely unmarked door. He placed his ear against it.

"Anything?" Lebeau asked.

"Nothing. I don't get it. _Somebody _should have heard that. There's enough of us down here today. Why isn't anyone coming to check it out?"

"Oh man! What's that smell?" Baker cried, wrinkling his nose in disgust. At the same time Lebeau snorted, "Paugh!" and shook his head as if trying to shake the offending scent out of his nose. Kinch felt his gorge rise as he too caught a whiff of the sickly sweet smell in the air. Almost simultaneously, all three gasped and started to gag as the tainted air was suddenly forced down their throats and absorbed into their lungs. The room was unchanged, there was no smoke or mist in the air, no one was around them - but all three felt themselves held in an iron grip, a hard pressure hitting the lower part of their faces, as if something was being held against their mouths. They clawed at their faces in a futile attempt to pull away the unseen presence. Writhing and twisting to free themselves, lungs burning to breathe, their only thought was to get away from that stomach-roiling smell. Kinch heard Lebeau cry out, saw Baker's eyes widen. His own panic began to grow beyond his control as the lack of oxygen caused a stabbing pain to shoot through both his temples, and he thrashed about frantically.

Around them the temperature plunged; the unexpected cold so intense that the muscles in the back of Kinch's neck hunched painfully. The room suddenly rang with high-pitched laughter, breaking through their panic. Mocking and cruel, the laughter of many voices grew louder and louder as the struggling men were now assaulted by objects hurled at them from all directions. Unable to yell, Kinch kicked and struck out in pure, frustrated rage as the corner of a book hit him right on the sore spot on his arm. Helpless, he saw a whipped flashlight smash Lebeau against his left temple and heard a muffled curse as Baker took a direct hit in the face by a tin cup thrown from God knows where.

Amazingly, just as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. Books, cups, flashlights and a forgotten straight razor, dropped from mid air to land scattered all over the ground, all in the same instant that they were released to fall to the floor, too weak to stand.

The three men lay there, coughing and panting harshly, lungs bursting. Kinch saw Lebeau and weakly crawled over to the other man. He tried to say Lebeau's name but he was wheezing and couldn't get the words out. Letting out a hacking cough, he tried again. "L…Louie? Louie, you…" Another cough rattled through his chest. "Louie, you alright?" he rasped.

When he didn't get an answer, he took the Frenchman by the shoulder and gently turned him over to see how badly the flashlight had hit him. Lebeau's eyes were dazed but they finally turned to look at Kinch after a little more prodding. Kinch rubbed his hand up and down Lebeau's upper arm in an attempt to stop the man's trembling. Beside them Baker was pulling himself up to a sitting position; his breathing as ragged as Kinch's own. Kinch looked over and saw a thin trickle of blood flowing down Baker's face from a small gash right between his eyes. He reached a hand over to the other man.

"Dave, you alright?"

"What…alright? Uh…yeah. Yeah, I guess so." Baker asked in a hushed voice, "_Damn_, Kinch! What just happened to us?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Huh?"

"That gash on your forehead, does it hurt? Can you see straight?"

Baker raised a hand to his forehead. "Yeah, yeah, it's alright I think." He gave one last shudder and then Kinch watched him take a deep, gulping breath. After a moment he found his voice, "Kinch? Man, Kinch, what was that? _What in the hell was that_?"

"I don't know Dave."

"Is Lebeau alright?"

"Yes," Lebeau himself replied. The two Americans glanced down at him.

"You sure Louie? You took a real knock to the head. Do you feel sick at all?"

"No," Lebeau said, but his eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he made no attempt to sit up.

Without warning the door banged open again, causing the three men to flinch and Lebeau to cry out. Baker made a desperate lunge for it and held it open while Kinch hauled Lebeau to his feet and together the three men dashed out of the room. They scrambled down towards the radio room as fast and as far as they could before collapsing against the tunnel wall. Huddled together, they sat there gasping for breath and then looked up to come face to face with a completely agog Foster. At the sight of the open-mouthed Englishman, Kinch began to chuckle. Then he started to laugh. It was a frayed and unsteady laugh, but he couldn't stop. Shocked, the other two victims stared at him. Then reaction hit and, slightly hysterically, they too began to giggle.

"I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do I do I do believe in spooks," Kinch laughed, doing a passable imitation of the Cowardly Lion in "_The Wizard of Oz_". Baker and Lebeau positively howled at this, even though Lebeau had never even seen the film.

Foster continued to gape at the three men who, bruised and bloodied, were nevertheless convulsing with hilarity. _What in heaven's name? _he wondered.

He ran off to find Colonel Hogan.


	9. gathering skies

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 9** _

_"Kinch…" _Hogan began in a warning tone.

"Sir, I know how it sounds. Don't you think I know? But this _is not _a joke!"

There were few men who could have faced down a glowering Hogan, but James Kinchloe was one of them. In the space of half an hour - and Kinch was amazed to find that that was all the time that had passed - he had gone from sceptic to believer, accepting and adapting to the facts of the events around him, despite how strange they were. And Kinch had never been afraid to argue about what he believed in. They had a situation here and it had to be faced. Beside him stood Baker and Lebeau, stoutly corroborating every word. Baker's naturally open mind and Lebeau's less rigid, more Old World outlook on the supernatural had allowed them both to recover quickly from their experience and now made them unshakable allies in confronting their disbelieving CO.

"Kinch, I'm not going to put up with this! Not even from you. I told all of you that I didn't want to hear any more on this subject and DAMNIT, I MEANT IT!" Hogan shouted.

Kinch looked his superior officer straight in the eye. "With all due respect sir, I know you did. We all did. We all _do_. So do you really think that we'd make all of this up? Does that make any sense at all?"

Hogan had no answer for that. Arms crossed over his chest, he continued to glare at his adjutant with a dangerous expression.

"Think about it sir, can you believe for one minute that we'd make this up for fun? I know all the hassle you've been getting lately. Can you really believe that I'd be so _stupid_ as to try and play a joke on you? And that Baker and Lebeau would help? This happened! This really happened, and we have to deal with it."

Grudgingly Hogan struggled to get past his anger. "Okay, so you're not making this up. I believe that _you_ believe it happened. But Kinch, be reasonable. Things like what you're talking about, they just don't happen! There are no ghosts. They're not logical! They're just superstitions, and if we give in to them we'll get caught every time."

"What happened was not the three of us giving into superstitions!"

Hogan raised his hands and went on in a more placating tone, "Okay, okay. Then it was just your mind playing tricks on you. Now, I don't know what the three of you think you saw but I know the mind can do funny things, especially in the dim light of an underground tunnel. That's why people all see ghosts at night in the first place; a person is just naturally more apprehensive without the security and stimulus of light. Add that to the fact that we're all tired and over-worked, well, maybe it's natural that we're unravelling a bit."

"Sir!" Kinch was growing angry. "This was not a series of simultaneous hallucinations. In the first place how could all three of us suffer the same delusions? And in the second, what about the gashes on Baker and Lebeau's faces? You're going to have to accept that what we're telling you happened _actually_ happened!"

"Watch your tone Sergeant! Now, I'll tell you all this one more time: This is getting out of hand and I want it to STOP!"

"Sir…" with supreme effort, Kinch forced himself to go on in a calmer tone, "Sir, again, with all due respect, this IS out of hand. Something is going on here that we can't explain and we have to deal with it."

"No, what we have to deal with is something real, and all of this irrational nonsense isn't going to help at all."

"It isn't irrational. What is irrational is your making a decision based on your own internal beliefs about what is real and what isn't, and completely ignoring the facts happening right in front of your face!"

All of the men stared at the two combatants in shocked silence. No one breathed.

"Well, _Sergeant_, none of these things _have_ happened in front of my face. Maybe that's the problem. All I have is one ludicrous story." The two men stood nose to nose. No one had ever heard Hogan speak like that before, let alone to Kinch.

Kinch didn't back down. "It's not just one story. Strange things have been happening here for at least a week. We've all experienced them."

"What you've experienced are nightmares and practical jokes. Not the supernatural."

Kinch opened his mouth and then stopped. Other than what had happened to him and Baker and Lebeau in the tunnel, what was there that couldn't be explained? But he knew things were wrong; he was only surprised that it had taken him this long to react. What if the Colonel was having the same problem? How could he convince him?

"Mon Colonel, listen to Kinch. Things are not right here." Kinch blessed the brave Frenchman.

"It's true sir. Just because we can't explain it doesn't mean it isn't true," Baker joined in.

The look that Hogan gave the two men was not to be described. None of them could ever remember seeing him so infuriated, so close to truly losing his temper. It was a mark of his ability to command that mentally he was almost always in charge of his emotions, always able to stay focused and keep them three steps ahead of any German. Kinch wondered if maybe this was the problem. He suspected that while Hogan loved the mental challenge of taking advantage of an unexpected crisis and using it to outwit those around him, he also need a certain amount of control in any given situation. Or to at least feel confident that he would be able to take control.

And the paranormal just didn't come into it.

With visible effort, Hogan reined himself in. "Gentlemen, I have finished discussing this with you. I don't expect to hear about it again." Reluctantly, the three men nodded. Hogan glared around at the others, who had sat looking on in silence. Stunned, they nodded as well. Hogan then turned and started down the tunnel without so much as a glance backwards.

"Please, mon Colonel…"

"Let him go Lebeau," Kinch advised quietly. "We aren't going to convince him this way." No one said anything else.

After a moment Foster asked, "Kinch, did all that really happen to you? I mean, I believe you. You wouldn't have gone through all that with the Colonel if you didn't go through it, but…_really? _It _really_ happened?" It was almost too much for the young Englishman to absorb, despite all the things that his father had told him.

"It really did Tom. Just like we said," Baker answered.

"Oh c'mon Dave! Invisible people laughing and throwing things! I think the Colonel's right. You guys need some serious R&R or something," Olsen scoffed.

"It did happen!" shouted a frustrated Lebeau.

Olsen snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Tell it to Ripley's Believe It or Not."

"It did!" Lebeau shouted again.

"Guys, calm down!" Kinch ordered. "This is getting us nowhere. Whatever it is, something very wrong is happening here and we've got to check it out."

"Well count me out. Underground or not, it's still too hot to go running around the tunnels on some half-baked goose chase," Olsen said.

"Haven't you any scientific curiosity at all Matt?" Foster asked.

"Scientific? Are you kidding me? How is believing in some loony tunes idea that we've got ghosts in the camp scientific? Being scientific means believing in facts, not figments of your imagination."

"No it doesn't. Science is about being an objective observer and researcher, and not burying your head in a swamp of pre-ordained ideas. It's just as Kinch said; it's illogical to ignore the facts around you. I don't know what's going on, but _something_ is, and we should investigate," Foster argued.

Olsen shook his head sadly. "Tom, you're turning into a real fruitcake."

Foster was about to yell something back, but Kinch waved him off. "Look Matt, do what you want, but I think we need to investigate and we could really use your help."

Olsen thought about it and then shrugged. "Alright, alright. Obviously, somebody needs to keep an eye on all you maniacs. I still believe you're just hallucinating though."

"Yeah, and some people still believe the Earth is flat too," Baker said.

"Knock it off, all of you!" Kinch demanded. "At this rate he war will be over by the time we get going."

"So where do we start?" Baker asked.

An unreadable look passed from Kinch to Lebeau. "I think we need to talk to Carter and Newkirk first," was all he said.

* * *

Eventually Kinch rousted every man in Barracks 2 to join in the search for the demolitions man and safecracker. _Or nearly every man_, he thought with a touch of bitterness. For the first time since he had come to Stalag 13, he found himself questioning Hogan's reasoning. Usually Hogan didn't hesitate to jump up and tackle a problem; Kinch had thought the man absolutely fearless in that respect. Why was he hiding now?

Kinch tried to push the thought away. The Colonel was dealing with not only the operation and a demanding HQ, but with the idea of possible saboteurs amongst his own men. Could Kinch really blame the man for wanting to concentrate on the matters at hand? For not wanting yet another distraction? The man was stressed already and desperately trying to stay focused. And after all, Kinch considered, what had Hogan seen? But he discovered that he was still inexplicably angry with his CO, and couldn't seem to shake the disappointment he was feeling.

Despite this army of twelve inquisitive men, the missing pair had still not been found by evening roll call. Not seeing them there got Kinch really worried. Had they left camp? Even those who had only joined in the search out of idle curiosity began to sense something more was going on. They stood in bunches, nervously discussing the possibilities, until Schultz had them line up. The men of Barracks 2 glanced around as they took their time getting into formation. The two missing men failed to show. The men instinctively spread out to fill the gaps in hopes of no one noticing, but they figured they were in deep trouble.

Yet Schultz reported all present without so much as a questioning glance. Surprised, Kinch saw that the big man was looking tired and vacant. _What did Carter do to him? _Kinch wondered, not even aware that he had unconsciously blamed his friend without any proof. Hogan, still simmering and refusing to look his men in the face, apparently didn't notice the miscount either. But from the "What the hell?" beside him where Carter usually stood, Olsen sure did, and as soon as the men were dismissed, he and the others looked to Kinch for an explanation.

Suddenly Kinch knew where they were. It wasn't reasoning; it didn't even feel like intuition. The knowledge was just there, like a gift from fate. He saw Lebeau opening his mouth, about to ask a question, and waved it down.

"No time!" he said, and dashed for the tunnels, the entire search party following on his heels.

* * *

They were in the uniform room. Dressed as members of the Waffen SS, they hardly bothered to glance up as the running horde came to an unexpected halt and crashed into one another in the doorway.

The men of Barracks 2 stared at their two comrades. Newkirk was standing nearly at attention and not in his usual slouch, a strange lack of expression on his face. Carter however, raised an inquiring eyebrow as he placidly pulled on a pair of gloves. This done, he turned to face down a gaping Kinch. With no hint that he would break his gaze, he waited for the other man to begin speaking.

Kinch continued to stare at "Carter". For an instant, Carter had looked absolutely awful - he would have sworn that Carter was deathly ill. Hollow-eyed, and paler than Kinch would have believed anyone could be, Carter's appearance stopped him cold. Then he felt a buzzing in his head and just as quickly Carter looked like his old self.

Physically anyway.

Now, as the two locked eyes, the shorter man was powerful and imposing, confident that he was in complete control. Suddenly the very idea that Carter would be the one to back down seemed ludicrous. He was so unlike their Carter that Kinch's next question was perfectly reasonable.

"Who are you?" The men behind him stared at Kinch, confused.

"Sergeant Andrew Carter," the man before him replied.

But the tone was wrong. It was too simple and matter-of-fact. Everyone saw it now. He had stood his ground, as if didn't care in the slightest what they believed; he even seemed amused.

"What? No surprise? No "What? You know who I am Kinch!" "

"Hmm, yes. I suppose that would have been the much more logical response." Without warning, he whipped his hand out and Kinch and the others were flung back to both sides of the tunnel. They couldn't move, they couldn't scream, their muscles were frozen. Carter and Newkirk strolled through the path cleared between them, neither giving a backwards glance as Carter ordered no one that they could see, "Take care of them."

The men regained just enough movement in their necks to look up as a cascade of dirt began to fall from the ceiling of the tunnel.


	10. the blind depths

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 10**_

Dietrich Heidemann had had SS men at his door before. Indeed, it had been two SS men showing up at his door to question him nearly six years before that had cemented his resolve to resist the Third Reich. The very idea that the state would send thugs, during peacetime no less, to interrogate a harmless naturalist who had broken no laws and could pose little threat, was not merely offensive, but frightening in its implications. After he began his work with the Resistance, the truth became downright terrifying. It was not so much that he feared being beaten or killed - though of course he did, what sensible person wouldn't - but he feared the costs of failure. Of not being strong enough. Of a mistake that might cost someone their life.

But mostly that the Allies might lose.

Therefore it was naturally a great relief to him when he glanced out the window and saw that the SS man pounding on his door was actually one of Colonel Hogan's men, Sergeant Carter, and that standing behind him was Corporal Newkirk. Walking to the door to let them in, he was again amazed at the difference a simple change of expression could make to someone's appearance. Knowing Carter and Newkirk well, he could still be almost frightened of the hard, grim-faced men that he let into his house.

Once the door was closed he turned to Carter and genially asked, "Was there any need to strike my door so forcefully Sergeant? I just had it repainted last month."

"I _am_ playing a part," Carter answered in a short tone. He did not bother to greet Heidemann. With brisk, Prussian precision he removed his gloves and strode into Heidemann's parlour. Newkirk followed without a word.

_So I see_, Heidemann thought with some amusement. Hogan had told him of the Sergeant's fondness for losing himself in a role. Smiling, he went into the parlour and offered both men a drink. Newkirk made no response, but to his surprise, the American accepted. He had seen Carter drink beer when he had met him at the Haufbrau once to pass along some information to Papa Bear, but the young man had never before accepted his offer of anything stronger.

"Surely, Sergeant Carter, there is no need to continue playing the part once you've entered my house? If you were afraid of being overheard, or of my house being 'bugged' you would not have admitted to your acting. Unless perhaps it is me that you are trying to intimidate?" he joked, but the joke fell flat.

Carter looked at him. Then half his mouth lifted in a small, tight smile. Dietrich felt a chill. There was something about the way Carter was behaving that was beginning to cause him some disquiet. He remembered Hogan mentioning that Carter tended to overact, but this didn't seem like his usual role. Hogan had said Carter's natural high-strung energy made it easy for him to fake the suppressed insanity of the general Nazi. This? This seemed too contained for the likes of the enthusiastic American. Every movement he made was somehow cold and efficient. Aloof. His voice was strong and resonant. The man before him radiated an authoritative control, right down to the subliminal level.

"Perhaps, George, that's exactly what I'm here to do," Carter said, finally responding.

Heidemann froze. With only one exception, no one had called him that in nearly twenty-four years.

"And really George, you're the last person who should comment about playing a part too long."

"I'm sorry…?" Dietrich started after a moment, trying to feign ignorance. But it was a lame effort and he was disgusted by it. He prided himself on being much quicker on his feet.

"That's really quite alright George. No apologies necessary. I wouldn't dream of expecting you to recognize me under these circumstances. But let's switch to English, shall we? I know that you know how to speak it, and I've certainly had enough of German to not want to speak it unless I absolutely have to."

Puzzled, Heidemann's gaze went from the subdued, almost cowed Newkirk to Carter, who was calmly regarding the drink that he gently turned about in his hand. Another chill went through him. There was something recognizable about this new mannerism of Carter's. Where had he seen it before? Even Carter's inflections and tone of voice - though alien to the Carter he knew - seemed somehow _familiar_.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit confused. I do recognize you. You're Sergeant Carter, one of Colonel Hogan's men. Standing behind you is Corporal Newkirk. Are you saying that you are someone different?"

"I believe George, that what I'm saying is that we're both someone different."

Irritated, and he hated to admit it to himself, slightly flustered, he said, "Really Sergeant Carter, simply because a man is retired does not mean that he enjoys wasting away his evening listening to enigmatic nonsense."

"Retired Captain Allen? I do wonder. I also wonder that you have no questions concerning my knowledge of your true identity. You were surprised that I knew, you couldn't hide that, but you did not ask me how. Interesting. Does this mean that you've informed the good Papa Bear as to the particulars of your past?" Carter finished his drink. "As to my 'enigmatic nonsense', I will concede I've become a tad melodramatic since…" he stopped, and then smiled, "well, let's just say since I saw you last."

Heidemann realized that Carter had been about to say something else, but had for some reason decided to play with him a bit. The strange sense of familiarity about him grew as well; a familiarity mixed with a growing sense of unease. He felt that perhaps that the reason recognition was eluding him was because it was something that couldn't possibly be. He pulled himself together.

"No, I'm afraid I have not been completely forthcoming to Hogan," he said, for the first time speaking in English, "but it would have been no difficult matter for him to have learned the details from London. Which I will presume he has done since you appear so well informed."

"Ah, so you still believe I'm the American sergeant?"

"I will confess, I'm beginning to have my doubts."

Carter smiled again, but it wasn't Carter's smile that Heidemann saw. "It's good to see age hasn't completely closed your mind George." Then Carter's eyes were shadowed and his voice turned regretful. "That was always the problem before, wasn't it? A closed mind. You just couldn't quite bring yourself to believe me." At that moment Heidemann cursed. He had nearly had it, but then the recognition had flitted out of his grasp. Carter went on, "I never truly understood that. You, who went through the horrors of the first war, could never quite believe in the depths of depravity possible within one single man."

"This is growing tedious Sergeant Carter. Who exactly are you supposed to be?"

"Well now, I suppose we'll have to see just exactly how far this new open-mindedness runs."

Heidemann regarded him levelly, and tried to give the appearance of a man who was growing increasingly bored.

"I'll give you a hint. You'll have to make quite a leap of logic on this one, but perhaps your association with the SPR will make it easier for you."

"The SPR? What in the world is…wait, the Society for Psychical Research? That SPR?"

"Any thoughts? No? Well, no matter." Carter put down his glass and Dietrich sensed that the game had ended. "I'll admit it's been enjoyable to have seen a familiar face, but unlike you Captain Allen, I find that there are limits on my time. So I'm simply going to tell you what I want."

"Please do."

"Schuler."

Dietrich straightened up sharply. He didn't understand why, but alarm bells had started ringing loudly in his head. "Schuler? Major Schuler? What could you…" he trailed off. He had almost missed it, the nearly imperceptible clenching of teeth upon hearing of Schuler's new rank. In less than a second the expression was gone, the face of the man before him so calm that he had to wonder if he had seen it all. He continued to stare at…_who? _Suddenly the answer exploded in his brain like a torrent of light. He leaped to his feet and recoiled backwards before the words even formed in his mind.

"My God! _MY GOD! Townsend? Are you saying that you are GERALD TOWNSEND?"_

"I'm very impressed George."

"No…No. No! I don't believe it. This is absolutely ridiculous!"

"Now, now Captain. I would have to think that in your time with the SPR the idea of spectral possession was at least raised."

Heidemann grew very angry. "No, this is not true," he insisted. "It's utter nonsense, and what's worse, it's pointless and cruel. You can be sure that Colonel Hogan is going to hear about this, _Sergeant Carter_."

"And will you be telling him in English or in German?" Once again meditating on the glass that he twisted gently in his hand, he didn't even bother to look at Heidemann as he said this. It was of no concern to him what the German impostor and the American Colonel might talk about. He raised his eyes and continued. "A bit different when it's right in front of you isn't George? Pity. Why fight it though? We both know you do believe."

And - God help him - he did. The disdainful man sitting in his chair was as different from the exuberant Carter as could be imagined. What's more, an icy hand seemed to wrench at his insides as he realized that "Carter" had been speaking to him with a British accent for heaven knew long, and he hadn't even noticed.

"However, I find that I no longer have the inclination to argue the point," Carter/Townsend went on, "so I'll put it to you this way: I know both your secret and Hogan's. I want Schuler. If you won't give me the information I want, I'll be forced to deal with someone who will. Perhaps, for instance, that irritating little Gestapo major who's so obsessed with Hogan and his organization." Actually, he could simply take the information from Heidemann's head, but it would be easier if it was volunteered. He would if it became necessary, but Heidemann had a strong mind and it would weaken him to do so.

"Hochstetter? You would really go to Hochstetter?

"I'm sure that for the right price, I'd have Schuler's head on a silver platter by tomorrow morning. But I'd rather not go that way. I look at things from a vastly different perspective now it's true - patriotism does mean so little when you've passed on - but I'd still rather we won than the Germans. And I'd hate to make the young man a traitor after he's been so helpful," he said, gesturing at his outward appearance. Then he leaned forward and locked eyes with Heidemann. His voice was cold and ominous.

"However, make no mistake. I want Schuler badly. _Now_."

Heidemann sat down. He was still uncertain, but no longer wished to show it. He forced his voice to be just as detached as Townsend's. "That would seem reasonable. After all, you don't appear to be well." Strange that he hadn't noticed it before, but his opponent's complexion was an awful waxy colour.

But Townsend only leaned back and laughed. "George, George, George! Of course I'm not well. I'm dead! It's the young fellow here who's failing." He waved a hand towards Newkirk, who had remained silent and motionless since he had entered Heidemann's home. "I don't suppose that one is having a particularly pleasant time of it either."

Despite the resolution he had made a minute ago to no longer show himself at a disadvantage, Dietrich Heidemann could not disguise the horror he felt at this revelation. "Good God! Are they still in there? What are you doing to them? Are you hurting Carter? Do you plan to kill him?"

"Certainly not. Provided, at least, that he can hold out until I finish what I have to. If he can, then of course I'll let him go. If he can't…well yes, that would be regrettable wouldn't it?"

"This doesn't sound like you Gerald. You were always a controlled man, but you were never this cold. This unfeeling. How can you so callously talk about letting this poor, innocent man die? And what about Corporal Newkirk? What are you doing to him?"

"At the moment Corporal Newkirk is relatively fine. Quite tired, I should imagine, and not under his own control, but otherwise fine. You might say he's more of an insurance against Sergeant Carter not being able to hold out until the end. Should the Sergeant collapse, it wouldn't do to be caught short, so to speak."

"_Caught short? _Gerald, how can I believe this is you? These are good men. Good men who are fighting _our_ enemies! How can you speak of them in this manner?"

"As I said before George, I look at things from a different perspective now. Death changes things. Besides, they're still fighting our enemies, simply under my direction rather than Hogan's. Fighting men like Schuler is what they're here for after all. They should know the possible consequences. Really, I don't see the problem here. All I'm asking for is some information. In return I keep a few secrets, and when I succeed I let these two deserving men go on about their lives. Why are you balking at this?"

"I'm balking because you are manipulating two friends of mine as if they were nothing more than tools to be used and tossed aside! I'm balking because you've threatened others who are not only friends, but who are risking their lives to bring down our enemies. I'm balking because you want to make me, _and them_, party to an assassination all to achieve your own revenge!"

"_My revenge!" _Townsend bellowed as he leaped to his feet. "For the love of GOD! How can you still not see? How is it possible that you still do not believe? This is not about petty revenge. Even this farm boy could see the truth!" In the space of a second he had gone from smug to enraged; such an extreme mood swing convinced Heidemann that it was entirely possible that death had driven his former friend insane. _But then dying would be a fairly traumatic event, wouldn't it?_

"Gerald, I do believe you. I believe now what you told me about all those years ago. I do. But let's not lie to ourselves, shall we? I believe revenge is a very large part of your motivation."

Dietrich Heidemann was a tall man, and well muscled for one his age, and therefore his amazement when the slight man in front of him grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet as if he weighed no more than a child was indescribable. But that was nothing compared to the cold terror he felt when he realized that he was paralysed in Townsend's grasp.

Townsend did not have to yell and yet the fury resounded in his voice. "My _motivations_ are irrelevant! When I destroy this abomination, how many lives will I have saved? I thought you were strong back then. A man to be admired. I thought that you demanded proof because you had the strength of will to keep believing in the good of people, that you would not be swayed by emotion. I thought that you were grossly wrong about Schuler of course, but I admired you as a man concerned with justice. But you're nothing more than a coward hiding behind convention, behind rules and formalities, afraid of doing what needs to be done. How much evil has Schuler done since then? How much barbaric cruelty and suffering has he been allowed to inflict since then? How many deaths could have been prevented if you had only believed me?

In a flash, Townsend moved his hand to clutch Heidemann by the neck and pounded the older man violently against the wall. _"THINK OF THAT!" _he screamed, _"THINK OF HOW MANY DEATHS CAN BE LAID AT YOUR FEET OF CLAY!" _ Still holding him off the floor by the neck, Townsend pulled him forward and then thrust him mightily against the wall again. _"AND THEN YOU CAN PRESUME TO QUESTION MY MOTIVATIONS!"_

_

* * *

_

In the end, Dietrich told him. Emotionally, the years since Gerald Townsend had disappeared had been very hard. Harder than he thought was fair for someone at his time of life. And, like the fleeting dreams of a man's "golden years", there were illusions he simply no longer had the strength to muster. He believed Townsend's stories, and though they made him sick at heart, he wished with his very soul that he had been strong enough to believe them then. If he had, maybe Townsend would still be alive. Maybe Andrew Carter and Peter Newkirk wouldn't be in the danger that they were in.

And maybe years worth of Schuler's "experiments" wouldn't have happened.

Townsend's words had cut through him, but he had not been surprised at them. When Townsend had said them out loud, he had recognized them as accusations he had unconsciously made to himself, and had then buried, unlooked at, deep inside. He nearly laughed as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. All the mistakes, all the acts of weakness that he had daily feared committing since joining the Resistance - they had already happened. Had taken place years ago, and had created in their wake an inevitable and increasingly terrible chain of events. He pondered what his Irish uncle had told him a lifetime ago: Every day brings pain and then the last one kills.

As he drank, he began to weep.

* * *

The English corporal drove them quickly through the ever-darkening night. Racing towards his prey, Gerald Townsend experienced less satisfaction than he thought he would at the near culmination of a mission that had enslaved him even after death. Irritated, he discovered that he felt a sense of regret in regards to his behaviour towards George Allen. Petty games had once been beneath him, certainly blackmail had. And would he really have invaded George's mind to find the information he needed? George, his only ally in those final dark days? It hardly seemed an honourable or just course of action. Wasn't justice what this was all about?

He chided himself for falling victim to useless distractions. Of course justice was what it was about. And if he got revenge at the same time, what of it? All of his arguments to George were valid. Schuler needed to be stopped. And George had finally seen that. He had not had to invade his friend's mind because George had been reasonable. In the end, George had understood the truth of what he was doing.

He had never truly felt any doubts as to the correctness of his intentions, but with this thought, he felt a new surge of righteousness in believing that his formerly sceptical friend had come around to see the morality of his actions. He was fortified by the new sense of purpose that came over him. As the English corporal drove them up to the gates of the fine house Amon Schuler now owned, two guards stepped out.

"Shoot them," he ordered, as serenely as any zealot on a divine mission.


	11. the sceptic's encounter

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 11 **_

Shutting himself up in his quarters after roll call, Hogan's temper was still boiling even now, hours after the confrontation with his men. That fact alone did nothing but add to his irritation. He liked to think that he was an even-tempered man, and considering the strain and never-ending pressure of running an underground organization right under the Nazi's noses, this was undoubtedly a reasonably fair statement. Sure, his temper erupted from time to time, but never in front of the Germans. That took control. Which in turn meant that his men generally took the brunt of whatever brief flare-ups there were. But they were usually just a few sharp comments; which the guys - he hoped - understood weren't really directed towards them. They had to. They knew what it was like, being stuck in this cesspool for so long with no end in sight. They knew what it was like putting their lives on the line. And they understood - as best as they could - what it was like to be responsible for all of the rest of the prisoners in camp. It showed in the way each of them had come to him and volunteered to help with some of the daily grind involved in making sure that over a thousand men were provided for. They couldn't really know what it was like of course, but the fact that they had each made that offer meant that they realized that it was a heavy burden. They must know what the frustration was like. Hell, it got to them too; they fought and bickered amongst themselves often enough.

But he had never been so truly furious at his men before. At Kinch especially. And whatever anger there had been at any of them had never lasted this long before. He had always been in control. Always. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and tried to rid himself of the bitter and frayed-at-the-edges sense of aggravation he was feeling. It didn't work. With a sudden growl, he grabbed the coffee pot off of his table and hurled it against the wall as hard as he could.

Breathing heavily with the force of his outburst, he stared down and cursed himself. Tiny receiver parts lay scattered on the floor. _Fabulous. Why don't you go rip the microphone out of Klink's office, or take a bat to the radio? Hell, why stop there? Why not set off the nitro in Carter's lab? _ He kicked at the leg of his bunk, feeling embarrassed and peeved at throwing a childish tantrum, but completely unable to stop it. He thrust his arm across his shelf and knocked his few books to the ground. He tore the blanket from his bunk and whipped it across the room. He pulled the hidden maps down from off the wall and only with an extraordinarily painful effort, kept himself from ripping them to pieces. Instead, he tore up the next week's duty roster and all of his supply requests to the Red Cross. It just seemed to fuel his rage further. He seized his chair and swung it up high over his head and then smashed it to pieces against the floor.

A horrified gasp came from the doorway.

"GET THE HELL OUT!" he roared.

Chest heaving, his back to the door, he could still sense that the presence hadn't moved.

"I TOLD YOU TO GET THE HELL OUT!" he bellowed and turned to confront an open-mouthed Schultz standing there, paralyzed with amazement.

"Get out of here Schultz!" he ordered angrily.

"Colonel Hogan? What is it? What has happened?" Schultz was nearly breathless with shock.

"That son of a bitch Klink cancelled the baseball game and we're out of _DAMN COCOA!"_ With that, he shoved the big man out of the doorway and then slammed the door in his face.

A very perplexed Schultz left. Clearly the Nazis had underestimated the Americans' love of baseball, but he had had no idea that depriving them of cocoa could have such an effect.

* * *

_Dumb. Very dumb. Sure, that was only Schultz, but even he could give you a rough time, you idiot,_ Hogan cursed himself again. He knew he had to get himself under control, but his anger refused to dissipate. He kicked at his bunk, all the more savagely because it was so futile. He desperately needed to punch something, but instead, breathing heavily, he surveyed the mess around him and then began to pick things up. Strangely, he didn't even stop to consider how odd it was that no one else had heard the commotion and come to see what was wrong.

He had cleaned up most of it as best as he could when he bent down to gather up the shredded supply requests. Squatting there, balanced on the balls of his feet, picking up the tiny bits of paper, he felt someone place their hands on his back and push him forward so that he landed flat on his face. He twisted around with his fists clenched, sheer rage igniting like a spark hitting a gasoline spill, ready to deck whichever idiot with a death-wish had been so damned stupid.

There was no one there.

He stormed out into the main room, even knowing he had heard no one go out of his office. The barracks were empty. He stared at the main door and the tunnel entrance, both noiseless and still.

_I couldn't have imagined it, could I?_

Unsure, he went back to his office and once more bent down to pick up the mess there, this time throwing quick glances over his shoulder and listening intently for some sound of his men. At a tiny creak, he whipped his head around - but it was nothing. He turned his gaze back to the debris on the floor, reaching for the last of it.

A hand smacked the back of his head.

Twisting around and leaping to his feet, he again saw no one. He raced into the other room, hoping to catch the culprit, but once more there was nothing but an empty barracks. _God Almighty, what in the hell is going on? Am I losing my mind?_

After a quick look around inside, and a short walk around the outside of the barracks, he decided that his mind was playing tricks on him. All that had happened was that he had lost his balance. _Probably because I'm more exhausted than I thought. _Trying to convince himself that he had imagined everything, he went back to his quarters to lay down.

The more he repeated to himself that it had all been in his mind, the more he believed it. He had been tired; certainly he had been worked up. It was only natural that he'd make a mistake. _I just need a break like everyone else, that's all._ This reminded him of the conversation he had had with Kinch, Baker and Lebeau. Part of him felt that he owed them an apology for his tone - after all, he could see how they could have leaped to conclusions - yet he also felt a peevish and pig-headed determination to let them apologize to him. Wasn't he himself proving that it was possible to remain rational? Putting his feet up and placing his hands behind his head, he laid back on his bunk. Beyond that, he felt oddly unable to think. Closing his eyes, he slowly drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of voices in his room. From the dim light, he judged he had been asleep hours, but his watch said that only thirty-five minutes or so had passed. _Shouldn't be dark this early,_ he thought, _not at this time of year. _He glanced out the window. _Clouding up out there, Klink's storm must be finally coming. _ But where had those voices come from? There was no one in his quarters. Had the guys come back? A quick look told him no. He shrugged it off. _Must have been dreaming. The guys are probably hiding out in the tunnels, avoiding me_. He couldn't blame them.

Still…it was like there was an itch at the back of his head. A slight feeling of alarm. He wandered into the main room of the barracks. _Maybe I should go find them_.

Then his world was turned upside down.

He stood there, in an empty room, and heard footsteps made by no one echo across the wooden floor of the barracks. There was no denying it, no explaining it. His mind wantedto deny it, wanted to refuse even the idea, but -

Then, as he stared, objects all over the room started to move. All sorts of his men's few belongings were thrown, dropped, picked up, examined, hidden; a plastic model of Brooklyn Bridge that Olsen's girlfriend had sent him was made to slide across the table. It seemed like a crowd of unruly children had been let loose in the barracks, children who were curiously exploring their surroundings and getting their sticky, little hands on everything.

Yet his eyes saw no one.

They noticed him. The voices started - a loud cacophony of whispering. It was as if a crowd of people were having hundreds of different conversations all around him, but pitched at such a volume that he just missed being able to make them out. And he got the feeling that they were talking about him.

The disembodied conversations went on as if his discomfort was of no importance. They jeered at him, all the while dancing around him. They started pinching and pulling at his skin and clothes while they giggled. A few times he'd single out a tone or laugh in front of him, only to feel it breathing on the base of his spine a quarter of a second later. He'd spin around, trying to catch it, but his hands would grab at nothing and the whole exercise left him disorientated and furious with frustration.

Others poked and prodded at him, examining him and discussing him as if he were an object with no thoughts of his own. It was an extremely disturbing feeling. Then they seemed to turn from him, though it was hard to tell since he couldn't see them. And as the invisible intruders went back to exploring their surroundings and playing with his men's possessions, he felt as if he had suddenly become unreal, insubstantial. They existed, he didn't - he was the dream and whatever world they were seeing was the real one.

And that was an even worse feeling.

_For Pete's sake, that's ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself. Klink's probably just let those Gestapo bastards put something in the water. Real or imaginary, the best thing to do is to order them to leave. Force them out of your head._

Despite feeling very foolish, he raised his voice. "I don't care who you are, _GET OUT OF HERE NOW!"_

The voices stopped, but he did not find that reassuring. He had the bizarre feeling that they had all stopped to stare at him, now that he had forced them to be aware of his presence as something more than a punching bag. A minute later they started up again, speaking more quickly and excitedly. He told himself he was being paranoid, but he had no doubt that they were speaking about him, discussing and analyzing his outburst. Mocking laughter suddenly erupted from the vicinity of Lebeau's bunk and he whirled around at the sound. He spun around again at the clatter of fifteen tin cups falling to the floor and then looked up as the entire barracks rattled and shook as if caught in a sudden mighty gust of wind.

"Colonel Hogan," said a wonderfully normal voice from the door behind him, "I brought you some - "

A half a dozen packs of playing cards exploded above him, the cards fluttering in the air and falling to the ground like fat snowflakes.

"What is it Schultz?" Colonel Hogan asked. "I'm kind of in the middle of something right now."

"I…I…I…"

Laughter rang out like a machine gun burst and Schultz cried out in panic. Colonel Hogan started to ask him again, but it was too late. Schultz had tossed what he had been carrying at Hogan's chest and tore off away from Barracks 2 as fast as he could go.

Hogan stared down at what Schultz had brought him. _A tin of cocoa? Why in Heaven's name would he give me that?_

But he had bigger problems. With a rumble, the whole barracks seemed to lurch and Hogan was knocked off his feet. _I'm getting extremely tired of this! _Pulling himself up, he then saw something that knocked the breath out of his body like a punch in the gut.

A thick shower of loose dirt was falling from the ceiling. It seemed to be coming from nowhere; just appearing into thin air above him and raining down like a landslide onto the table. Sprays of it bounced off the table and hit him in the face. Sinking back onto Carter's bed, he was then hit by dirt falling from the underside of Newkirk's bunk. Looking around like a man in shell shock, he saw that the dirt was coming from the underside of every upper bunk.

His heart leaped into his throat; he could have choked on it. _The fellas!_

He raced for the tunnel entrance, desperately sweeping off the pile of dirt that had built up on top of it. He pounded on the trigger that opened it and jumped down, too frantic with worry to use the ladder.

He had to get to his men.

* * *

_Author's greetings:_

_I have to admit, I wasn't going to update today. But hey - a story about the supernatural? How could I not post a chapter on 6/6/6? Thanks once again to everyone for all the great reviews and encouragement! I promise, the next chapter will be longer. _


	12. converging fronts

**Emanations of Hate**

**_Chapter 12_**

A timid and nervous young woman answered the door before Townsend could knock more than twice. He hated to waste the time for even this nicety, but he forced himself to remember his situation. There were only the two of them, against perhaps an unknown number of Nazis inside. He had to stay strong to finish this. Ripping the door off the hinges might alert Schuler a few - perhaps crucial - minutes early.

The woman - the housekeeper he presumed - was young, maybe in her early twenties, but her thin body and the way she hunched her shoulders as she cowered there, avoiding his eyes, made her appear old. Not just older, but old; as if she was near the end of her life and would welcome the release from fear that it brought. A fading bruise darkened one of those downcast eyes. At the sight of it, Townsend's serene sense of mission was shaken. He had not thought of how he would find Schuler, of what Schuler would be doing. Somehow, on some level, he realized that he had believed Schuler would be waiting for him. Driven by a sense of destiny, having overcome death itself in order to enact retribution, it was hard to discover that Shuler could not feel it. That he was not waiting for Townsend, aware that his end was coming, forced to realize that justice had caught up with him at last. Finding that Schuler had simply gone on with his life, continuing to do all the vile and brutal things that he had done before, undoubtedly not sparing a thought to Townsend in the last seven years, made Townsend burn not only with rage, but with a sense of betrayal. Was Fate on his side, or was he alone?

"Where is Schuler?" he asked the housekeeper. His tone seemed positively inhuman to her, and though it was not directed at her, she shrank back from it.

She scurried to lead him down the hall and towards the back of the large and richly furnished house. "If you please, Herr Standartenfuhrer," she answered, obviously familiar with the ranks within the SS, "he is down there." She meekly pointed to a door that led to the cellar.

"He is alone?" It was a tone that made the woman think of the frozen dead that littered the plains of Siberia.

"Y..y..yes H…Herr Standartenfuhrer. His assistants left half an hour ago." She nearly fainted from terror when she caught the way his eyes blazed at the word "assistants".

"There is no one else in the house?"

"N…No, Herr Standartenfuhrer. The Major did not entertain tonight."

He turned to stare at her intently and she nearly screamed. If possible, his voice grew even colder. "What about down there?" he demanded.

"Down there? I do not understand, Herr Standartenfuhrer." Puzzled, for the first time she raised her head. He looked into her eyes and, as he saw the truth in hers, she saw such a look of sadness in his, that it would bring her to tears once they were gone and the fear had left her.

"Listen to me," he asked. It was a request this time, no longer an interrogation. Horrified, she realized that she had been looking him in the eye, and dropped her head immediately. "No, look at me," he told her. It was a little more forceful, but still a request. He raised her chin and she tried her best to hide the flinch she made at his touch.

"Take this," he said, and handed her some money. "Watch, do nothing to stop us, and when you see us leave, go and search his basement. I'm sorry to ask that of you, it will be very hard, but there still could be someone down there. If you find anyone, help them out of this house. Take this money and Schuler's car and go to Gretel's Bakery in Hammelburg and ask for Edith Appenzeller. Tell them Papa Bear sent you. They will help you. Do you understand?"

"But Herr Schuler will - "

"Do not worry about Herr Schuler. He will be leaving with us. He will _not_ be coming back." The brisk but gentle tone was gone and she was once again terrified. "Do you understand?" he repeated.

She bobbed her head up and down. Unable to look him in the eye any longer, she was shivering too hard to speak.

"Good. Go now."

She raced to do as she was told. From as far away as she could, she watched the two SS men enter the basement, and despite the ominous silence, she did not interfere.

* * *

Amon Schuler was whistling as he washed his hands. Nothing could have prepared Townsend for that; that the monster would be whistling a cloying tune from some heavy-handed German opera as he washed the blood off his hands. Townsend could only stare.

Sensing someone behind him, Shuler whipped around angrily. "Lena, how did you get - " he demanded, but broke off when he spotted Townsend and - more importantly - the rank insignia on Townsend's uniform. The two men in the doorway to his inner sanctum were ranking members of the Waffen SS, Hitler's elite corps of race guardians, an organization to which he was an honorary member, and therefore they were his superiors. Quickly adjusting his voice to sound ingratiating, yet still managing to sound smarmy and patronizing, he asked, "My apologies, Herr Standartenfuhrer, is there something I can do for you?"

Cold, sick rage twisted and consumed Gerald Townsend. Even for a man who had spent his life in strict control of his emotions, it was nearly too much. How does one face the person who had brutalized their body and mind, destroyed their soul, and then finally murdered them? Memories of the terrifying powerlessness that he had felt as this arrogant, psychotic bastard had forced him to watch as he performed his inhuman work; the white-hot, rabid fury burning through him as he was made to witness every cry, every unholy scream those poor children had made along with the maddening and sheer overwhelming horror at not being able to stop it; were suddenly and painfully in front of him. And then he saw that same face, that thin, condescending face now just starting to flesh out with decadence, as Schuler had then performed his degrading and humiliating experiments on him - killing him in the end. Gerald Townsend wanted to whip out his stolen Luger and plough bullet after bullet into that sallow, reptilian visage; to carve out those flat, dark eyes; to beat those odious features until they were nothing but a pulpy mass. And then just to keep beating and beating until all the pain and rage and fury were purged.

But that was not the plan.

What he did took more self-control than he had ever had to use before in his life. Literally. His voice was calm, even friendly in an evil, conspiratorial way.

"Come closer, Herr Strumbannfuhrer. I have something I must discuss with you."

"Of course, Herr Standartenfuhrer." As he crossed the room Schuler said, "If I may ask, how did you get in here? I have not given my housekeeper a key."

"Is there some reason we should not be in here Herr Strumbannfuhrer?" Townsend asked dangerously.

"No, no, of course not, Herr Standartenfuhrer." Schuler feigned contrition, but smirked almost imperceptibly; as if to say that he knew who he was dealing with now. A petty official with more power than he deserved, who would not understand his work, and his ignorant enforcer. Townsend could sense Schuler's self-satisfaction at his own cleverness, and his confidence that his important connections would give him the clout to deal with the two of them, despite his lower rank.

"There is perhaps something that you wish to keep hidden from us?"

"No, of course not, Herr Standartenfuhrer. There is nothing I would keep hidden from the SS. We are all in the same organization, are we not? In fact, it would be my pleasure to explain my work to you. Would you like a tour?"

Townsend's face twitched. "That will not be necessary. We are more than familiar with your work," and with that he pistol-whipped Schuler across the temple.

* * *

Peter Newkirk saw what happened. More and more, he seemed to be coming back to himself. He had no control over his own body, which was an extraordinarily frightening sensation, but he could think more easily and was aware of his surroundings. Perplexed, he watched as Carter, who wasn't Carter, struck the man whose sleeves were still rolled up from washing his hands. Seeing this, and remembering the two guards outside, he contrasted that behaviour with the man he had watched give money to the battered young housekeeper. None of it made sense, but once the initial shock wore off he found that he didn't question it. He had no idea who the unconscious man was, but the bile had risen in his throat at the first sight of him. _Nasty piece of work,_ he had thought and his revulsion had only grown from there. Now, looking at him, the blood from the gash on the man's head running down his ear and onto the floor, Newkirk wanted nothing more than to kick him in the head.

Carter, but not Carter, had other ideas though. "Bring him," he ordered and started up the steps. As always, whatever - or whoever - was in control of Newkirk responded without question. Suddenly the Carter impostor caught his eye. Newkirk felt himself freeze as the man in front of him examined him closely, with an expression of harsh enquiry.

"So, you are there as well," the Carter impostor finally said.

Newkirk knew that this was said to him personally, but he could not speak.

"Let him answer," the impostor directed.

A bond within seemed to loosen. "Yes," Newkirk finally managed. His voice was hoarse. It was the first word he had said in God knew how many days; it felt like the first word he had ever been able to utter in his entire life.

The man who looked like his friend but wasn't, seemed to consider this, and then was resigned.

"It no longer matters." He started walking up the stairs.

"Carter?" Peter croaked.

"He is here," the impostor said, and then he did something that Newkirk was not prepared for. This man, who from what little Newkirk had seen, was vengeful, vindictive and more than likely completely barking mad, gave him a deeply consoling look. "Try not to worry Corporal," he told Newkirk, "Hopefully, it will all be over soon."

* * *

As - though unknown to him - two of his men found themselves caught and forced to undergo a horrifying journey, Robert E. Hogan was running down his own passage to Hell. He tore through the tunnels yelling for Kinch and the others. He knew they were down here but he didn't know _where_. Convinced that something drastic had happened, he knew every minute counted and the impulse to panic grew as a thousand of them seemed to race by and he still couldn't find his men.

After an eternity, he came upon some men from other barracks. Wilson and five of the men from forgery and counterfeiting had been talking and now stared open-mouthed at their panting Commanding Officer.

"My God! Didn't you men hear me yelling? What in the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"Sir?" one of the counterfeiters asked, confused.

"Never mind," Hogan barked. "There's been a cave-in. I think. We need to find the guys!"

"You think? Don't you know sir?" Wilson questioned.

"Damnit Wilson, there's no time to explain! All of you, spread out and start searching!"

"Do you have any idea as to where sir?" Wilson asked.

"No! And don't ask me to explain, just do what I tell you or I'll have you all court-martialled!" Hogan ordered. Even Gilmour, who had only been in camp three weeks and had only spoken to Hogan once, knew enough to hop to at that tone, and the six men dashed in different directions as if trying to outrun the Germans.

Over five chaotic minutes went by before the call went out that someone had found the cave-in. Hogan, Wilson, the forgers and a few stragglers who had been lingering in the tunnels, frantically followed the sound of the voice crying, "Over here! Over here!"

"It sounds like it's coming from one of the tunnels leading to the storage areas!" Wilson shouted as he met up with Hogan. More and more men joined them as they ran off in that direction.

When they reached the tunnel outside of the room where they kept the spare uniforms and German civilian outfits, they discovered a massive wall of dirt blocking their way and an excited Gilmour pointing to the wall. "I think I can hear someone back there sir!" the young private told Hogan. "Sounds like they're digging from the other side!"

The way the men leaped to action would have given pride to the most skilled Mine Rescue Unit. Organizing themselves hurriedly to the tasks of digging and shoring up, all the time watching the ceiling for any dangerous signs, they were soon rewarded with the sight of a dark hand poking through a small hole from the other side. Hogan recognized it.

"Kinch! Kinch, can you hear me?" The fingers struggled and twisted between the debris and the loose dirt in an attempt to wave and they could hear the muffled sound of someone yelling on the other side.

"Keep at it! Keep digging!" Hogan ordered the surrounding POWs. Turning back to the hole, he shouted, "Kinch, hold on! It won't be much longer!" The hand pulled back inside.

"Colonel? Is that you?" The voice was still a little muffled, but they could make out the words and it was clearly Kinch.

Quickly the hole was widened. Hogan signalled the diggers to stop and yelled again, "Kinch! Can you hear me now? Is there anyone else in there with you? Is anyone hurt?"

"There's a bunch of us sir!" came Kinch's voice. "No one's hurt, but we're trapped back here!"

"Don't worry fellas, we're going to have you out in no time!"

There was a lot of dirt, but it was fairly easy to pull away; a fact which confused a digger on Hogan's left. He couldn't remember the man's name at the moment, but seemed to recall that he was a miner from Canada. Focused on the crisis at hand, he only listened to the man's puzzled comments in a distracted way.

"I don't get it," the digger remarked to Gilmour beside him. "Where'd this dirt come from?"

"What do you mean?" Gilmour asked.

"Well, the ceiling's fine. And this loose stuff here doesn't match this part of the tunnel. Different colour and all. It's like someone dumped it here. Just piled the jeezly damn stuff right in the way."

That made Hogan glance at him, but he had other things to worry about.

Finally the hole was big enough to see through to the other side. As the unnamed miner braced the sides, Hogan spoke to Kinch. "Everyone alright in there?"

"Yes sir."

"Okay, we're going to start bringing people through." He and the miner then leaned forward to grab hold of the arms of the first man pushing his way out. It was Olsen.

"Hey Matt, how you doing?" Hogan asked.

Olsen spat some dirt out of his mouth and then grinned at Hogan. "Oh fine, sir. Never better."

"That a fact?" Hogan smiled as he held him up while the miner helped him get his legs free.

"Yup. In fact, I think I'm just about healthy enough to desert."

Hogan snorted. "Soldier, you've got my permission to desert - exactly ten minutes after the war's over." But he was nearly laughing as he turned Olsen over to Gilmour, who helped him move to the back, out of the way of the others.

One by one, they pulled the trapped men out. As Foster was brought over to where Olsen was sitting on the ground with his back against the tunnel wall, he heard Olsen say, "You know, when I was a kid and scared of the ghosts, my Pop used to tell me: Don't worry about the dead kid - it's the living that'll get you every time." Covered in dirt, he turned to Foster and gave a rueful laugh, "Helluva time the old man picks to be wrong!"

An equally filthy Foster grinned. "Lost our scepticism, have we Matt? We'll have you believing in witches next."

"Hell, I'm one up on you there Tom. I already believe in witches."

"What?" An incredulous Foster sat straight up and stared at Olsen.

"Sure, Pop used to chase them all the time."

Baker and Garlotti, recovering nearby, started to chuckle at the mystified Foster. A straight-faced Olsen continued, "Hell boy, you should've seen the string of'em the old man brought home after my mother died. Personally, I wouldn't have touched those hags with a ten foot pole, but what can you do? Whatever floats yer boat right?" The three Americans started laughing out loud, partly from the joke, but a good deal from relief. Foster finally clued in and gave Olsen a light punch on the shoulder, and then began to laugh himself.

The laughter had subsided though, by the time Lebeau and Kinch were brought over. Wilson told the diggers to fetch the men some water and then set about examining them all more closely. The recuperating prisoners grew quiet and turned their gazes to Kinch; they knew what was coming. They all watched the radioman as he watched his Colonel, who was looking around and just realizing something important.

"That's everybody?" he questioned. "What about Carter and Newkirk? I'd have thought they'd have been with you."

Kinch didn't know what to say. An uneasy feeling grew in Hogan. He told himself that there was no reason why they weren't up top somewhere, but one look at Kinch told him that something else was going on.

"Kinch? What about Carter and Newkirk? Do you know where they are?"

"No sir. I can say that I truly and honestly don't know where they are."

"However, I do."

All the men had been so intent on Kinch and Hogan, that they started violently at the sound of the strange voice from behind them. The tall form of Dietrich Heidemann stood in the tunnel.

He was speaking English.

"Heidemann?" A confused Hogan finally asked. "What the hell? I didn't know you could speak - "

"Colonel Hogan," Heidemann interrupted brusquely, "I'm afraid that's going to have to wait."

Hogan straightened up. "Where are my men?" he demanded.

"In more trouble than I can explain. You'll need to come with me. I'll tell you about it on the way."

Hogan glanced around at his men. At Heidemann's mention of trouble they had jumped to their feet and now stood at attention, waiting for his word.

"Alright, Foster, Olsen, Lebeau, try to find some uniforms from the rack of stuff we use the most often. I think it's still by the main entrance to the barracks. Bring one for me as well. Kinch - "

"I'm coming sir." It was a statement, not a request.

"I am too," Baker said.

"Right." As much as Hogan wanted Kinch in charge of the men here, he knew there was no sense in arguing, even if there had been time. "I'm going to see about borrowing a truck from the motor pool."

"Do you have a medic?" Heidemann asked.

"Wilson," Hogan answered, nodding towards him. "Why?"

"He'd best come along."

Hogan didn't stop to question it. He sent Wilson to get a uniform and to tell Lebeau to get one for Heidemann as well. He turned to Garlotti next. "Tony, go and find Lieutenant Dodd in Barracks 7. Tell him what's happened and that I'm leaving him in charge."

Hogan was suddenly struck by a deep feeling of dread. He looked around at the rest of his men, the ones who would be staying, the ones who would be caught by the Gestapo if he and the others didn't come back.

"Tony, tell him it's an emergency situation. Have him get the men ready to go out. If we're not back by a half an hour before roll call he's to evacuate the camp and then blast the tunnels."

The remaining men all stopped and stared gravely at their CO.

"Sir?" Garlotti hesitated, unsure that he had heard right. Hogan merely nodded. Tony turned to go look for Lieutenant Dodd, and then turned back.

"You have a question Garlotti?"

"Yes sir. Who's going to set the charges?"

Hogan paused. _Oh_ _damnit to Hell - Carter's backup is Newkirk_, he thought.

"If the charges are made, I can lay'em out," the lanky miner from Canada spoke up. "I've blasted tunnels before. I sure to frig can't build the sons-a-whores, but I can use'm."

Hogan looked to Kinch, who nodded. "I think Andrew has some made up. Come with me and we'll take a look in his lab." The radioman led him off.

Fifteen minutes later, their effort to rescue the men trapped by the cave-in looked like a haphazard and casual Sunday affair compared to the speed at which they readied themselves to go. Hogan conned a truck out of the motor pool so fast that the guard was still baffled and scratching his head by the time Hogan had gotten himself and the others out of camp with it.


	13. the futility of arguements

**Emanations of Hate **

_**Chapter 13**_

The most truly frightening aspect of this whole ordeal for Peter Newkirk, the one that would always stay with him, was seeing the chilling expression on Andrew Carter's face as he watched Amon Schuler slowly stirring. His awareness was continuing to return to him gradually; he still had no control over his movements, but he could now feel his hands on the wheel as he drove them to Schuler's cellar where it had all began. More importantly, they were beginning once more to feel like _his_ hands. This reassured him, and helped alleviate some of the horror of having his unresponsive limbs jerked around like a puppet on a string.

But not being able to recognize a single thing about his friend in the back seat, the unnatural quality of what was happening to him, made Newkirk sick with fear. For the life of him, he couldn't believe that he'd ever see his friend again; that Carter wasn't lost for good.

_And it's all my fault! It happened when I locked him in that bleeding room. Whatever it was, it happened there_. He stared in the rear view mirror at Carter.

_Oh, God help me! What've I done?_

_

* * *

_

However, neither of the two men in the back seat were aware of this conflict in their driver. Townsend did note the English corporal gazing at him, but it was unimportant. He sat and gathered his strength and did his best to not let his repulsion get the better of him as he felt Schuler finally regaining consciousness beside him. He did not bother to hold a gun on Schuler, whose hands were tied behind his back. Even without that precaution, there would be no escape for the monster now; but oh, how he did want to kill the slimy bastard. Still, he considered, the others deserved their time with Schuler. He could not rob them of that.

Schuler moaned. "What is this?" he hissed.

Townsend did not deign to answer.

"I demand to know why I have been abducted!"

With tremendous force Townsend suddenly struck Schuler across the jaw, hard enough to knock the man's head against the far window.

"_DO NOT _make demands of your betters!" Townsend bellowed.

"My betters?" Schuler sneered, rubbing his jaw, but not daunted for a second. "_You_ are nothing more than hired thugs. Degenerates picked to fill out the ranks of the SS and enforce the laws that _your_ betters have helped create. That _I_ have helped create. Do you know who I am?"

Townsend laughed. It was hilarious! "Herr Schuler, do you know who _I _am?"

But Schuler didn't get the joke. "I don't know and I don't care. I am a very important scientist doing vital work for the Third Reich. My work is imperative to the success of the Fatherland. I am irreplaceable."

"If only that were true, Herr Schuler," Townsend said. _The world would be a better place. And it would make my killing you so much more rewarding._

"I assure you that it is. It is crucial that I continue my work without interruption." Schuler's supreme sense of self-importance was not shaken by being met with silence. "Do you hear me?" he demanded impatiently.

Townsend displayed no concern at this posturing.

"I have important connections. People who will notice my absence and want to know the reasons for my work being delayed. I know Karl Brandt, General Commissioner for Sanitation and Health and Hitler's personal physician. I am a member of the Institute for Military Scientific Research and therefore the Ahnenerbe Society, of which Heinrich Himmler himself is president. This also makes me an honorary member of the SS."

"That is hardly a point in your favour," Townsend laughed. "It's also rather foolish really. They had no qualms about turning on Rascher after all."

For the first time Schuler's face lost its expression of arrogant indignation. "It was different with Rascher," he argued.

"Ah yes, a doctor purging the 'unclean' executed for not meeting race requirements. Most ironic. I enjoyed reading about it in the newspaper. Of course, I had to compensate for the eternal propagandizing, but still - a very rewarding article. The only one that didn't turn my stomach as it happens. Yet I believe you're failing to see the point I'm making."

"There is no point. Rascher knew what we were trying to do. We are the true absolute people. We are divine. It is our sacred duty to eliminate the contagion and in doing so, usher in the New Golden Age." Townsend, even knowing what the man was, could only stare in shock as Schuler said all of this in an exalted tone, his eyes staring far off into the distance as if towards some fabled, golden tomorrow.

"My God! You actually believe that don't you? You truly feel no remorse at all."

"Remorse? Why should I feel remorse? I remember attending a lecture given by Dr. Ernst Rudin, who assisted in composing the 'Law for the Protection of Hereditary Health'. He talked about the need for genetic purification, and how not only were some lives not worth living, but about how it was our responsibility as doctors to destroy such life and remove it from the general population. It was then that I realized my life's mission." (1)

"_Your responsibility as doctors? _Your responsibility as a doctor is to protect life! To save it! That is your sacred duty! The duty that you've betrayed!" The minute he opened his mouth he cursed himself. He had sworn he would not get involved in word games or debates with this odious, poisonous parasite. Schuler's mental capacities, other than devising ridiculous arguments for his monstrous behaviour, were stunted, his morals non-existent. Arguing with such a deformed and spiritually twisted example of the animal kingdom was pointless; and even simply answering the bastard implied some sort of credit to his ideas. That somehow they were in the smallest way worth listening to, if only to argue against the sheer sickening wrongness of them.

But he couldn't help it. In the logical part of his mind, Townsend had not for a moment truly believed that Schuler had ever felt remorse, even less that he would express it; but the heart of a good man can still be staggered by the evil in the world. Even with intelligence, strength of will, vengeful fury, and a thorough, personal knowledge and experience of Schuler's work, a part of Townsend was still completely taken aback by Schuler's own view of his actions. For some things, some evils, there is no preparation.

"On the contrary. My first duty is to my country. To my people. If weeds are destroyed, healthy plants survive. If the weak are culled from the herd, it is to the gain of the entire species. After all, all lesser creatures inevitably perish. By removing this refuse now, I am preventing their taint from spreading and infecting the German race. Instead of healing one person, I am healing an entire people and helping them grow stronger as a whole. My experiments provide an immense advantage to the soldiers of the Fatherland. My work will allow us to better understand the effects of cold and starvation upon our men. The effects of amputation, of infection, of weapons such as mustard-gas. And this will not only benefit our military, but all of humanity!"

"Excepting of course the part that you are slaughtering, anyone who loves them, and this and future generations whose lives would have been made richer by their presence and from the contributions they would have made!" Townsend stared straight ahead into the night. His voice was contemptuous. In the dark interior of the automobile, one could not see the pained glitter of his eyes, or sense the despair and futility that suddenly overwhelmed him.

"Don't be ridiculous. I am giving these worthless beings the only purpose they will ever have. By their deaths they will contribute more to further our existence than they ever could have dreamed of. Perhaps it causes some degree of unpleasantness, but what is the discomfort and loss of a few insignificants in terms of the bigger picture?"

Strangely, Townsend began to chuckle. It was a bitter sound. It was the laugh of a man accepting his defeat. In what way he had been defeated he was unsure. Perhaps it was because the universe or Fate or God had tricked him, made him the avenging protagonist in an epic battle only to discover that it was a meaningless skirmish, one in which his opponent was too blind and too stupid to see his own evil. To expect Schuler to repent was pointless. Perhaps there was no point to anything at all.

Still, as they had said in England when he was young, _You gotta laugh, don't you._

Townsend turned a feral grin on Schuler. "Some degree of unpleasantness? Well, well. We shall see, my meerschweine." (2)

"What? What do you intend to do to me?"

Townsend smiled. "Why, I'm only going to continue your work Doctor. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that your death will contribute a great deal to further our existence that you could have possibly dreamed of."

Slowly, dawning realization at last penetrated into Amon Schuler's brain. Too preoccupied in defending the importance of his work - and therefore of himself - to the SS man beside him, it was only now that he was beginning to understand that this might not be an SS man at all. In an instant, all of the snide arrogance, the petulance and the self-exaltation were gone, leaving the innate cowardice of the man writ plain.

"Who are you?" he finally asked. Schuler felt a sudden, painful pressure over both his windpipe and carotid artery, but there was no hand against his throat.

"So now my identity is of some importance to you, is it?"

Schuler's mouth moved but no sound came out.

"Whatever is the matter? Can't you speak?"

Schuler's breathing was growing strained; his heart was galloping in his chest.

"Perhaps that is because I do not wish you to speak. A maggot should not speak as a man. So now I will speak and you will listen." The pressure on Schuler's neck grew still tighter. "I could argue with you. That your work is a moral abomination. That your results would be suspect and of little significance considering the physical condition of the poor people you experimented on, which would negate their value in terms of saving others. I could say that thinning out the gene pool is hardly helping it. I could even say, that more importantly than anything, the thing that matters most, is that by doing what you do, you are _weakening_ humanity, because you are destroying its soul. You are obliterating the very _meaning_ of humanity."

"But really, there would be little point to such an exercise, would there? You have already shown yourself incapable of remorse. You are too ignorant and warped to see the injustice of what you have done. Face facts, you aren't human, let alone _humane_. So I would strongly suggest you leave the discussion of humanity to those who actually have some. As to your motivations…well, you can go on and on about serving humanity and the Fatherland, but I believe that deep down we both know what drives you. Your slipshod 'work' speaks for itself. You are nothing but a pitiful and insecure toad, scurrying and bootlicking to your superiors in your sad attempts to reach the top of something that you are too stupid to see is merely a dung heap. But even without the approval of your fellow sociopaths, I know that you would keep doing what you do because you are an a sad, depraved, worthless coward. The only true motivation behind your experiments is a twisted exercise of power over those who, as vulnerable as they were, you already saw as being better than yourself."

Red-faced and choking, eyes watering, Schuler struggled to protest.

"And why children Amon? Are you truly so pathetic that you could not even take on an adult? It's a poor excuse of a man who could possibly believe it a victory to overpower such small beings. But it's silly of me to ask, isn't it? We both know for a fact that you _are_ that pathetic. It's a sad truth. I had such a different idea of how this would be. Quite frankly, if it wasn't for your "experiments", you'd be too damned stupid to be worth bothering about. Just another craven bully in a world full of them. So, in the end, it does come down to revenge. In a purposeless situation, I can only take pleasure in stopping you and paying you back in kind."

Townsend turned a pair of gleefully inhuman eyes on his prey. "Well, we all must take what we can get, eh?" He laughed out loud. "And certainly, I will enjoy it!"

* * *

"Who is this Schuler?" Hogan asked Dietrich Heidemann after the older man directed him to drive to the underground cellar where he had sent Carter and Newkirk nearly a week before.

"An odious man. London believes he's another one of these Nazi scientists using shoddy experiments and dubious conclusions in order to prove Nazi superiority."

"And you don't?"

"No. I think he's another one of these Nazi bastards using science as an excuse for their love of mindless torture and brutality."

Hogan was silent for a moment, digesting this as the first spatters of rain began to hit the windshield. Even over the engine he could hear the first rumbles of thunder. _Looks like Klink's storm is finally here_, he thought to himself. In the back, Kinch and Baker were being held 'prisoner' by Lebeau, Foster, Wilson and Olsen.

"What does this have to do with Carter and Newkirk?" Those in back moved closer to listen through the opening in the back of the truck's cab.

Heidemann hesitated, unsure how to begin. At last he said, "They are being used by a man who is determined to stop Schuler."

"How _exactly_ are they being used?" Hogan's tone indicated that he fully remembered Heidemann speaking English in the tunnel, and that until that was explained everything the German said was now under some suspicion.

_No use dilly-dallying_, Heidemann considered. "Colonel Hogan, have you ever heard the term 'possession' used in a spiritual sense?"

"Once, back in Catholic school…Oh, wait just a damned minute! Are you telling me that you dragged my men and I out of camp because of some mystical idea that two of my men are being controlled by ghosts?" he shouted. Furious, he pulled the truck over to the side of the road.

"Yes, I'm afraid that that is exactly what I'm telling you," Dietrich answered.

"Damnit! What is this? An epidemic? I'm not about to believe - "

"Sir," Kinch interrupted quietly, "Please listen to him."

Hogan was about to make a retort but stopped as he turned and looked into the faces of his men. Except for a slightly puzzled Wilson, they all believed it. All of them. He was about to argue, but then he remembered the events in the barracks that had driven him down into the tunnel in the first place.

"Fine, fine. I'm listening."

Heidemann saw the belief reflected in the faces of Hogan's men as well. He also saw that Hogan believed more than he wanted to. He continued, "About seven years ago a man named Gerald Townsend from British Intelligence contacted me. For what exactly is unimportant, but after we had worked together for awhile, he came to me with a story that a man named Amon Schuler was performing bizarre and fatal experiments on homeless children. Mostly Jewish children by that point, but Townsend believed that it had been going on for years; that Schuler had been abducting and murdering any unattached child he could lay his hands on - with things just becoming easier for him once his work had come to the attention of the Nazis. After that his victims were provided for him and his results gained a wider audience."

Hogan didn't know what to say. He had heard rumours of such things, but it was still hard to really comprehend how a person could do things like that. Instead he asked, "Why would a man from British Intelligence come to you?"

Heidemann sighed. "I'm from England originally. My real name is George Allen. Shortly after the first World War, I was sent here to Germany by British Intelligence to well… 'monitor' things."

"You're a sleeper?" (3)

"I suppose that is the closest description. My actual assignment was loosely defined. At the time, it was only meant to be temporary, but after I made contact with a German general who had been sympathetic to our side during the war, I met and fell in love with his daughter. When we decided to marry, her father and my superiors decided to take advantage of the situation and arranged for things to become more permanent. Ostensibly, I became my father-in-law's personal aide, but with his help I would feed information to England. After his death, a new man and his staff took over and I was demoted to clerk. My wife and I considered returning to England, but by then Hitler was starting his rise to power and my superiors requested that I remain. I was asked to watch over things, and to provide any support I could give to the field agents London would send to me."

"Why didn't you tell us any of this?"

"Colonel Hogan, I have lived as Dietrich Heidemann for nearly twenty-five years now. The safety of my wife and father-in-law, not to mention my own, required that I remain undercover constantly. Every second of every dayof every year. Do you understand? I could never, even once, allow myself to think of my former identity. And after awhile…well, I _became _Dietrich Heidemann. When once, not long after he arrived, Townsend accidentally referred to me as George, I nearly didn't know who he was talking about."

He trailed off and then his voice grew quiet. "Even my own wife was never able to call me George. She knew, but she also know that one slip-up could be fatal." He turned his face away. "Still, I wish that…" He shook his head; it was not the time to dwell on regrets.

Silently Hogan started the truck up again and pulled out onto the road. Willing once more to trust Heidemann, at least temporarily, he asked the Englishman to continue on with what he knew about Carter and Newkirk.

"There's not much more that I can tell you. When Townsend came to me with his story about Schuler, we had a falling out. We both knew that it would be ridiculous to assume that the Nazis would conduct a legal investigation. Perhaps if my father-in-law had still been alive something might have been done, but not by then. Townsend wanted us to take care of the problem ourselves. I argued that it wasn't our jobs; that it was an unnecessary risk. He demanded to know how I could simply stand by and let something like that happen. I argued that he had to be mistaken; that no one could truly do something like that. After all, he had no evidence."

Heidemann's voice grew infinitely sad, "I didn't believe him. Truthfully, I did not want to believe him. I knew enough by that time to realize that espionage was not the gentleman's game that I had been taught it was, but I still needed there to be rules. Being a spy in peacetime was distasteful enough, I needed evidence before I could become an assassin. But I was a coward. I denied what Gerald was telling me because I did not want to believe in something so terrible, so _obscene_."

"What happened after that?" Hogan asked.

"I don't know. Gerald simply disappeared. London sent someone to investigate, and I did my best from this end, but there was no trace to be found. I decided that he must have been killed looking for the evidence I had asked for. Either that, or he had resolved to do something about Schuler himself; he was a man deeply concerned with justice, natural if not legal. I told London all I knew about Schuler. They said that they would look into it, but to this day, I have no idea if anything was ever done. I've kept track of Schuler over the years. However it grew more difficult as he moved up in Nazi circles and I moved down. I had come in before the Nazis and was part of the old guard. Soon I was no longer even able to keep my job as clerk, and was made to retire. After that, what little I could learn about Schuler was simply what anyone could read in the newspapers. It was only luck that I had him under surveillance when he moved after his house burned down and so was able to discover where he lived. I also prodded around the remains of his first house and that's how I eventually found his cellar. I examined the main room and the storage room, but found nothing. I had thought that that was the end of it. When I heard about the new headquarters being built nearby, I told you of the cellar so that at least it would go to some use."

"What about Carter and Newkirk?"

"They came to my house earlier this evening. Carter, or Townsend I should say, demanded to know where Schuler was."

"You told him?"

"Yes."

"Then how the hell do you know they're not going there?" Hogan challenged. "How do you know they just won't kill Schuler right in his own home?"

"It's simply a feeling that I got from Townsend."

"A feeling? You're basing all of this on a _feeling_? I've got two missing men who could be anywhere by now! I can't just trust your _feelings_!" Hogan shouted.

"I don't know what to tell you Colonel Hogan, other than that I know Townsend. As I said, natural justice is very important to him. Whatever Schuler did to him, he probably did to him in that cellar. As an act of retribution, doing the same to him in the same place is an idea that I think would greatly appeal to him. I also believe - and I will admit I cannot back this up for a moment - that there are others involved. At least one other to keep Newkirk under his thumb."

"What if Newkirk is just going along with this to keep Carter safe?"

"No, Townsend implied that Newkirk was under his control as well. I do not believe it is to the same extent however. Sergeant Carter looked absolutely terrible, whereas Corporal Newkirk only appeared exhausted."

"What's wrong with Carter?" Hogan demanded.

"I don't know. Whatever Townsend is doing is hurting him in some way. That's why I asked you to bring along your medic."

"But Newkirk is alright?"

"I believe so."

"Perhaps Newkirk's freed himself somehow and this Townsend bloke doesn't know it," Foster suggested from the back.

"I concede that that is possible. However, his expression seemed all wrong for it. I also have tobelieve that he would have tried to signal me in some way. His expression was an utter blank and the entire time they were there he neither moved nor made a sound."

"I think he's right sir," Kinch said from the back. "I can't remember Peter saying a single word since the two of them came back that night. If Newkirk wasn't being controlled, he would have said something, or found some way to clue us in. Especially if Carter was in trouble."

"What? Newkirk hasn't said anything? Not a single word to anyone?" Hogan was stunned.

"And think about it sir, what does that say about us? How is it that we didn't notice?" Kinch went on. "We had to have been affected somehow."

Hogan suddenly remembered speaking to Carter and not being able to remember what he had been talking about. The incident was now more clear in his mind, almost unbelievably so. Carter hadn't seemed to notice anything at all when he was suddenly fumbling for words. The slightly worried look, asking if he was okay, which would have been part of Carter's normal reaction, hadn't been there. His voice…_God Almighty! _Hogan nearly drove off the road as he realized Carter had spent the whole of that conversation answering him with a British accent. _How the hell didn't I hear that before? How didn't I notice anything at all? Kinch is right, what's been done to us?_

Startled exclamations from the back met this sudden swerve. "Colonel, what is it?" Lebeau asked.

"Nothing, Corporal," Hogan answered, "I just remembered …" He turned to Heidemann, "You say there's more than one of them?"

_In the woods, that night after the mission with Jelly Roll - there were so many of them._

"Yes. If there is one controlling Corporal Newkirk, I would guess that it is another victim."

"And if there is one victim, why not more?"

"Precisely."

"But still, why wouldn't they accompany Townsend to Schuler's new house?"

"It is possible that they did, but from what little I know about spirits, I believe that they would have limited energy away from their place of death."

"Why?"

"That I do not know. There are theories, but I don't believe anyone really knows."

"You sound like some kind of expert."

"Before I left England, I was a member of the Society for Psychical Research."

"The what?" Hogan asked, but then quickly guessed what it was for. "Never mind, we have to get to Carter and Newkirk." Outside, thunder was rumbling again, closer now, and it was growing harder and harder to see through the rain.

After concentrating on his driving for a few moments, Hogan shot Heidemann a pessimistic question, "Just out of curiosity, seeing as you're the expert here, do you have any idea at all what we're going to do once we find them?"

Heidemann still had no answer for him by the time they reached their destination.

* * *

_Author's notes: _

_(1) Karl Brandt, Rascher, and Ernst Rudin are the unfortunately real people I mentioned in my disclaimer in the first chapter. _

_(2) guinea pig_

_(3) "sleeper" is a term for agents who live undercover -sometimes for years - before being activated._


	14. homecoming

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 14 **_

The storm was gathering strength. The rain pelted down with such force that it seemed to bounce off the road like hail. Sudden furious gusts whined and howled through the trees, causing bursts of wind and rain to lash violently against the stolen staff car.

The three men within were silent. Newkirk was too busy trying to figure out what was going on inside of him to talk, even if he had been allowed to. Part of him, or at least something - _someone_ - inside of his skull, was focused intently on the road. But the greater part of whatever, or whoever, it was, was gloating at the German in the back. It, or they, were separate from him; he was regulated to the role of observer in his own body. And yet, he knew what they were thinking. He did not understand how, and at bad moments, he wondered if he had simply gone insane.

But personal insanity did not explain Schuler or what was going on with Carter. Having been allowed to listen to their previous conversation he realized that Carter, or whoever, obviously knew Schuler; and while Schuler did not recognize him, he did finally seem to comprehend that this person knew him. Newkirk started; without his paying attention, the alien part of him had stopped the car. They were here.

For so long he had had questions, but until they had arrived at Schuler's house that night, whatever was inside of him - revelling in its new found senses and wanting control - had kept pushing him further down inside himself, keeping him from hearing the things he had needed to hear to make sense of all this.

But now, here, at this place, he suddenly feared the answers that he knew were coming.

* * *

Townsend saw the truck. There was no question in his mind as to what it meant and who it had brought: _interference_. Pulling Schuler roughly out of the car he paused for a moment, wondering if it would, in the end, be simpler to finish the bastard out here.

Schuler also spotted the truck and brightened momentarily. Between the darkness and the rain, along with being unconscious for part of the ride, he had no idea as to where he was, but the truck meant that there might be potential assistance nearby.

He straightened and looked down at Townsend. "Dear me, what does this do to your plans?" he sneered. "I'm sure that whatever treason you intended can hardly be played out in front of witnesses." The arrogant intimidation was somewhat ruined however by the need to yell over the downpour.

Townsend merely chuckled as he yanked Schuler sharply towards the trees. "Conceit and all of your German 'breeding' has apparently left you addled-minded," he shouted. "How do you know that they're not part of this?"

Schuler hadn't thought of that. He attempted to retain his haughty air, but it was difficult as he shivered and blinked against the deluge. Then a sudden, blinding flash burned across the heavens, illuminating blackened and charred timbers in the form of a cross. At nearly the same moment a terrifying crack of thunder seemed to shatter the world apart, deafening him and driving him down to his knees in front of it.

"_DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE NOW, AMON SCHULER?" _Townsend yelled, the air ringing out with his triumph. _"DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM NOW, AND WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU?"_

Still on his knees, Schuler whipped his head around to face Townsend, snivelling and gibbering with terror. Townsend doubted Schuler could put a name to him, or even a face, but he knew. He knew that his victims had finally come for him. Schuler would repent now - only out of fear Townsend realized - but it was enough. Townsend quickly marched over to Schuler and drove his fist into Schuler's face. Blood gushed forth from the mangled pulp of Schuler's nose and he howled. Townsend and Newkirk then walked around behind him, both grabbing one of his feet and pulling him forward so that he fell flat on his face, letting out a piercing screech of pain as his nose hit the ground. Schuler continued to shriek as his face ploughed through the earth as Townsend and his accomplice dragged him, clawing at the ground, towards the cellar doors.

* * *

None of this was heard by the men in the cellar. They had arrived to find the place empty, causing each to fear that Hogan had been right, and that Carter and Newkirk had been taken somewhere else entirely. But following Dietrich Heidemann, who was privately fearing the same thing, they went deeper and deeper down.

It was an awful place, especially to the men who did not perform missions on a regular basis and so were not used to hiding in such dismal spaces. They were hardly all inside before it seemed as if the roar of the storm outside had been completely swallowed up by the oppressive silence. Only Foster and Heidemann had flashlights; Dietrich had his because, with his mediocre night vision he had needed it to find the tree stump entrance to Hogan's tunnel system, and Foster had thankfully thought to throw one into the pocket of his German overcoat at the last minute. The lights danced eerily back and forth as Heidemann in front, and Foster at the back, swung them from side to side to guide the men slowly down the stairs. They went forward reluctantly, not saying a word. By the time they reached the upper room, each felt as if they had never been anywhere else in their lives but in this dark place.

Of all of them, only Hogan and Heidemann had been there before, and the others marvelled at its size, or at least what they could make out of its size. The pervading shadows drowned their light before it could reach any of the walls. They did not stop long to ponder this, but hurriedly fell in behind Heidemann as he strode towards the other end of the cavernous room, swinging his light in a wide arc.

"Do you know what we're looking for?" Hogan asked him quietly, when he judged they should be nearly to the far end.

"No." Dietrich's sad answer reflected the sounds of a man lost in his own terrible thoughts.

In spite of the ambivalence Hogan felt over Heidemann's conduct all those years ago, he realized that the man was hurting. Without a word, Hogan stepped over to him and gently placed his hand on the older man's shoulder. Finally he said, "We can't change the past, but we can use the present to fix its mistakes."

Heidemann nodded. He drew himself up straight.

"That's it," Hogan went on, "Help me help my men and I promise you that we will stop Schuler."

Heidemann looked at him regretfully. "Unfortunately Colonel Hogan, I believe that the only way to help your two men is to let them stop Schuler."

"But there must be something we can do!" Lebeau protested, "You said it was hurting them!"

Heidemann turned to Wilson. "Can you suggest any medical means of freeing someone from possession Sergeant?"

Wilson shook his head.

"But they're not even here," Foster put in.

"No, but look!" Heidemann flashed his light against the wall, revealing the sliding door and the gaping well of darkness beyond. Hogan's men closed ranks, definitely not liking the look of that door.

"That just goes into a storage room doesn't it?" Hogan asked.

"Yes, but the last time I was here the door was closed. Carter and Newkirk must have gone in there. Perhaps they found something in there that I missed. It would be wise to check before we think of moving on."

"I don't know, I think we should go look for them. Maybe Lebeau's right, maybe there's something we can do," Foster said.

"They're coming here. I can't tell you how I know that, but seeing that door, I'm more sure of it now than I was before. Whatever will happen, will happen here."

"But we can't just let this Townsend guy and whoever the hell else keep controlling them, making them do things they don't want to do!" Olsen argued.

"He's right," Kinch agreed. "He plans on killing Schuler. Not that I don't think Schuler doesn't deserve it, if all of this is true, but what's that going to do to Carter?"

"Oui, mon Colonel," Lebeau said, appealing to Hogan instead of debating Heidemann. "What if he can remember all of this when it is finished? Poor Carter will feel terrible! He's never had to kill anyone in cold blood before."

However, Hogan was thinking and it was Heidemann who replied. "If any of you have a plan, I would be more than willing to help you, but I fail to see what exactly it is that we can accomplish. At this moment, our only option for freeing Sergeant Carter and Corporal Newkirk would appear to be to let all of this play out."

"In other words, to let Carter and Newkirk do your dirty work for you," Hogan snapped. "Tell me, why _exactly_ does Townsend need to keep controlling Newkirk?" Hogan demanded out of the blue. "He could have kept Newkirk in the dark the same way he did us. Why does he need Newkirk as well?"

Heidemann sighed; he had wanted to spare them this. "For insurance - in case Sergeant Carter does not live long enough for him to carry out his plans. If that happens, Townsend would then have Corporal Newkirk's body to inhabit." Even in the dim light he could see the seven shocked sets of eyes that now stared at him.

"You didn't tell us that this could kill him!" Hogan bellowed. "How? What exactly is it doing to him?"

"I don't know. I have no idea how Townsend is doing this and I have no idea of what specifically it is doing to Sergeant Carter."

"And yet we're supposed to trust not only your assertion that they are coming here, but also your motives for letting it happen!" Hogan shouted, whatever previous sympathy he had had for the older man vanishing in an instant. "Even though you're perfectly willing to let my men be forced into doing something that you should have done years ago or let them die in the attempt!"

"NO!" Heidemann objected as Hogan quickly turned and strode towards the stairwell. "Wait! Please listen!"

"We are going out to look for them NOW! If they are coming here, we'll meet them on the way."

His men ran to catch up to him. "But what will we do when we find them?" Baker asked.

Hogan stopped and took a deep breath. He did not look back at them as he answered. "If death can drive Townsend out of Carter, maybe pain will as well."

"Sir, what are you saying?" Kinch asked. "What do you expect us to do - break his legs? Drive Townsend out by beating poor Andrew senseless? How will that work?"

"No, wait Kinch, he might have something there," Baker argued. "Pain would cause his adrenalin levels to go up, like when you get in a fight. Maybe some kind of severe physical change like that would drive Townsend out!"

"I hate to say it, but that would probably do more harm than good," Wilson put in. "We have no idea how bad off Carter is now. Doing something like that to him might cause his heart to stop or God knows what else."

"Besides, I don't think I could hurt Carter like that," Lebeau declared.

"Not even to save his life, Corporal?" Hogan questioned.

"But we don't know that it will sir, do we?" Kinch put in. "It might even kill him like Wilson said."

Hogan peered at his second in command for a minute in the feeble glow of Foster's flashlight. "What do you suggest Kinch? You said we needed to do something."

Kinch sighed and looked back to where Dietrich Heidemann still stood and waited. "I hate to say it sir, but he may be right."

"What? Kinch, we can't trust him!" Olsen protested.

"Matt, the fact is that we don't know what to do. Whoever, or whatever, this Townsend is, he's been able to control us for how many days now? Seven? And he just waved his hand in the tunnel and we were flung against the wall and caught in a cave-in. And, on top of that, he's not alone! I want more than anything to go out there and help Carter and Newkirk, and not just sit here. But let's face it, none of us has a clue as to how to stop him, and trying anything could just make it worse. How much strength will it take out of Carter if Townsend has to fight us off? Besides, what's to say that even if we manage to get him out of Carter that he won't take over someone else?"

The other men looked unsure as they considered this.

"So you're suggesting we just give up?" Hogan asked.

"No! Yes. Hell Colonel, I don't know what I'm saying. I guess what I'm trying to get at is that this may be out of our control now. I believe Heidemann; whatever is going to happen is going to happen here. I can feel it, I think we all can. Maybe if we look around we can find a clue as to how to stop it, but we also might have to accept that by trying to stop it we could be making things harder on Carter and Newkirk."

Unnoticed, Heidemann had walked up to them. "Please, Colonel Hogan, listen to Sergeant Kinchloe."

"Look, you're the last damn person I want to hear from right now!" Hogan barked.

"I understand. I don't know what I can say, but please believe me when I say that I wish with all my heart that this wasn't happening. If there is any way to save your men I will do whatever it takes. But if there is a way, I truly believe that it will be found here."

All logic, all of his experience, told Robert Hogan to lead his men up those stairs. It told him that you do not wait for the problem to come to you, that you go out and face it before it grows too big.

_Rob, _he found himself thinking_, in this particular situation, I think you passed that point the day you were born. Actual, honest to God, Fate may have caught up to you at last._

Hogan, the set of his features terrible and grim, lead his men back towards the black void of the storage room entrance.

* * *

If the first tunnel had not filled them with apprehension, then this one certainly did. Upon walking into the storage room and finding the open entrance Heidemann had only been able to stare. _How could I have missed it? How could I have never found that before?_

This time it was Hogan who lead them down a dark stairwell. Implacable and determined, he did not hesitate, despite an unusual feeling of claustrophobia that had started to clench at his stomach the further he went along the narrow passage. His men, not quite as confident, still followed.

When they reached the door to the lower chamber they felt all that Carter had felt before them - the thrumming, almost subliminal vibrations; the murky heaviness in their lungs as the breathed in the fetid air; the grimy coating on their skin as if the very atmosphere of the place was marking them with its own pollution. They stared at the door when they came to it, with even Hogan hanging back, unwilling to touch it.

"Do you think they went in there?" he asked Heidemann.

"I have no idea," Heidemann answered. "If they did, why would they close this door again and not the other one?"

"I don't know, but…" and he reached out to open it.

As his hand brushed against the lock a bombardment of frantic sounds pummelled his eardrums, causing him to flinch and draw away sharply. A hundred voices were there, clawing overtop one another to be heard, but too piercing for him to listen to. He threw his hands over his ears and a quick glance behind told him that the others were in just as much pain.

"Mon Dieu! What is it? Can you make it out?" Lebeau shouted over the din.

"No! I don't…I can't…!" Wilson yelled back, shaking his head.

"Everyone be quiet! Try to listen!" Kinch bellowed. "I think I can almost understand!"

The sound continued to grow; the frequency becoming higher and more rapid in its urgency, driving the men to their knees, clutching at their heads.

"Please, please stop!" Foster screamed, or at least that's what it looked like to Hogan, who couldn't hear him over the noise. There was a panicked look on Foster's face though, that Hogan didn't like.

"I wish to Hell you'd stop this!" Olsen cried out.

"We don't understand!" Lebeau pleaded. "Please! We want to help you!"

The voices still ran together, but suddenly the message was clear. _Donotstopus donotinterfere leaveusalone thisisourtime letusbe leaveus donotstopus wewilldothis noonemuststopus wemustdothis donotinterfere leavenow gonow donothingtostopus wewilldothis noonewillstopus leaveusalonedonotstopusleavenow GoawaygoawayGOAWAYGOAWAYGOAWAY!_

With every order from this invisible chorus, the men were assaulted; indefinable grey shapes, lit by the frenetic flashes of two flashlights being wildly brandished about as weapons, punched and slapped them with cold, slimy, fish-like hands. Vainly trying to defend themselves, they were pushed and yanked off their feet and kicked back towards the way they had come. An icy wash of panic hit them all at once and, frightened beyond coherent thought, they turned almost as one and made a bolt for the stairs.

All but Hogan. He rose to his feet, unwavering, and stared at the door.

"I WILL NOT BE CONTROLLED LIKE THIS!" he shouted and made a lunge for the crossbar, yanking it open.

* * *

An eerie, sickly-green luminescence flooded out of the open doorway, lighting upon the faces of Hogan's men as they watched their commanding officer steel himself and then stride into the lower chamber.

Slowly, wordlessly, they followed. The invisible assault dropped off as each walked into the light; Dietrich first, then Kinch and Lebeau. After them it was Wilson and Baker and then finally Olsen and Foster.

Inside, the light persisted but it took on a flickering underwater quality. If Carter had been there - and had been himself - he could have told them that the chamber was very different than from when he had seen it. The unnatural radiance reflected off of metal gurneys, metal kidney-shaped bowls such as the type they used in hospitals, metal trays.

Metal instruments.

Despair choked at Dietrich Heidemann's heart. _Oh Merciful God in Heaven! It was all true. Please forgive me, I let it go on and it was all true._ But as the thought came, he was distracted by the scene before his eyes.

The light grew stronger as the small forms that had tormented them merged with it, and phantom sounds came from all around him. He flinched at a clatter of scalpels. He heard restraints snapping shut, padlocks and chains clanging against stone, even drops of blood splattering one by one into a metal pan - each of these sounds resounding in his ears with a terrible clarity. Squeaking wheels going over the now tiled floor caused his chest to tighten, and he turned to witness the barely visible spectre of a sullen, beady-eyed man pushing an emaciated boy on a gurney right through Foster and Lebeau. He saw Hogan and his men jumped out of the way of each apparition with dismay and growing panic, but for him there came a curious sense of calm. Perhaps it was resignation. Perhaps a part of him realized that this was his penance, and he accepted it, and even felt relief that it was here.

Hearing the small Frenchman cry out the word "Carter!" made him and the others turn to the door. The physical presence of Andrew Carter stood before them, virtually unrecognizable. His eyes - the pupils contracted to mere pinpoints - were glowing unnaturally bright, the blue irises seeming to burn within the dark sockets in his skull. He was also sickeningly pale and the sheer awfulness of his appearance was enough to pull them out of their own nightmares to stare at him with alarm.

But it was not Carter who heard his friend's shout. Jaw set, Townsend did not acknowledge Lebeau, other than raising one eyebrow towards the group in general. Instead, the strange Englishman reached down and hauled up by his shirt the man that he and Newkirk had been dragging between them. The man, dressed in SS uniform pants with suspenders and a white shirt that was now covered in blood and dirt, was bruised and sobbing, and he started whimpering when Townsend jerked him to his feet.

"The gang's all here I see," Townsend complained ruefully. But then he smiled. "Ah still, the more the merrier to watch the worm squirm, eh?" he said to Schuler, shaking him so hard that the German's head snapped to the side like a broken-necked doll.

"CARTER! STOP THAT!" Hogan instinctively ordered, not thinking.

However, Townsend paid him no more attention than he had Lebeau. Ignoring his audience he addressed Schuler with a mocking courtesy, "Now, Herr Schuler, I believe that we'd all like to get this over with as quickly as possible. If you would…"and he waved his hand to indicate that the German should get up on the operating table.

Schuler screamed hysterically and tried to bolt backwards, but Townsend still had him in an iron grip.

"Now, really! Must you make things so very difficult?" Townsend chided the blubbering doctor, as Newkirk wrestled him onto the table and Townsend bent over to snap the restraints in place. "It's all for the greater good, I do assure you."

"NEWKIRK!" Hogan yelled. Newkirk's gaze flickered towards him for just a second and Heidemann saw Hogan's hope surge. "Newkirk, can you hear me? Let him go Peter! Let him go!"

Townsend straightened up and sighed mightily. "Let him go?" he repeated, sounding like a defeated parent who was tired of explaining a complex matter to a child. "Let him go? No, no, this just won't do," he said, shaking his head.

He calmly walked over to face Hogan. With a pedantic and condescending expression, he seemed about to lecture the dark-haired man, but then he paused. The set of his features changed to one of serious resolve, but the same look of sadness beyond telling that Schuler's housekeeper had seen, was present in his eyes.

"This was only meant for Schuler. All of it. You were never meant to see." It was a voice of sincere pity.

An explosion of brilliant white light blinded them.


	15. the aftermath of ugliness

_For all my wonderful, patient readers: a nice, great big long chapter _

**Emantions of Hate**

_**Chapter 15 **_

For the rest of their lives, the true horrors of that night would not diminish, but only grow, as they played out over and over again in their nightmares. New images would appear each time, as things that were impossible to absorb while the events happened, would re-emerge, becoming an indelible part of the terrible whole.

The momentary blindness faded from their eyes, but the whiteness did not. The background behind the appalling tableau positively gleamed, even _shone_, with a cold, sterile light - making every nuance glaringly present, a startling full-colour obscenity against a backwash of preternatural white. The silver of metal surfaces, the black of Schuler's boots, the sallow flesh tones of Schuler and his assistants, the blood… Every single detail stood out as sharply as the edge of the scalpel that the phantom image of Schuler held in his hand.

Including those of the victims.

The images came in flashes, each lasting only a few minutes and yet an eternity. Later, in the hours and days immediately following the events, the images would be disjointed and surreal, blurred together by panic and the need for action during a crisis. But while it happened, they experienced no sense of time and therefore no hope that the horror before them might eventually come to an end. In their minds, there was no remembrance of the events that had lead them here, or thoughts of what would happen afterwards. They found themselves forced to be witnesses, and only witnesses.

The experiments started.

* * *

He didn't know where he was. There were terrible sounds all around him. Someone, someone he thought he should know, was screaming, almost on the verge of hysteria.

He opened his eyes.

It was dark.

The screaming continued; was it him?

It had been, he felt, but then he thought that he had passed out. A few more moments went by and the screaming turned into a raw, gulping cry. Once his eyes adjusted and he could see a bit more, he saw that the crying was coming from Lebeau. It took a few minutes more for his mind to register who Lebeau was and that he should do something to help him. Weakly he crawled over to the small Frenchman and put his arm around him, not only to stop Lebeau's trembling, but his own.

He could see a bit further now. The room was different. Only the tiled floor remained as a testament to what this place had once been. Otherwise it was empty except for his men. Wilson had his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He was weeping, but Hogan could see him taking deep breaths in order to get himself under control. He looked over to see Kinch on his hands and knees, moaning and praying; as he watched, Kinch's back suddenly hunched and he vomited. Baker and Olsen seemed to be just coming out of unconsciousness, but Foster was the most worrying - he had pulled himself into a huddled ball, his eyes wide and staring out at nothing. Hogan had seen men lost in that overwhelming blankness before. He hoped that it was only a temporary sort of shell-shock, but the ones he had seen mostly did not come back.

He turned Lebeau over to a slightly steadier Kinch, and went over to Foster. As he did he was shocked to see Newkirk heaped bonelessly a few feet away. Glancing around frantically, he suddenly realized that he could not see Carter or Dietrich Heidemann. Signalling Wilson to come to Foster instead, he went over to Newkirk.

And that's when he saw the ravaged, bloody remains in the corner.

A memory seeped through the foggy, paralyzed jumble in his brain. Something had happened. _Something after the little one with the_…but his horrified mind quickly darted away from that. Instead, he had a vision of Andrew, dark blood pumping from his nose, ripping the restraints away from Schuler and then grabbing him and driving him into the wall. From the look of gibbering fear on Schuler's face, Hogan believed that the man was already half-way to losing his mind, possessing only just enough sanity to understand what Townsend was going to do to him. And, as he had watched Carter's hand reach out and place itself on Schuler's chest, Hogan had known too.

_His left side. His heart._

A pounding rhythm had reverberated throughout the entire room. As Townsend had flexed Carter's hand over Schuler's heart - if such a man had a heart - the throbbing grew louder, faster, more insistent. A keening, wailing dissonance had started up in the background, but had not overpowered that dreadful, horrifying beat. Hogan almost thought that it was all happening again as the memory of the sound grew quicker, driving its way through his skull. Hogan's gorge spasmed involuntarily as he remembered Carter's fingers being made to slowly dig their way through Schuler's flesh and into his chest, sinking further and further in.

Schuler's head had thumped and rattled, thrashing wildly as he convulsed against the wall. Blood had poured out of his nose and mouth as well as his chest and soon Townsend's arms - _Carter's arms _- were garishly bathed in a thick and viscous fountain of scarlet. And then, as Schuler's back had arched painfully and he had given one last massive shudder, blood so dark that it was almost black had burst with tremendous force out of his chest and drenched both himself and his killer.

When it had been clear Schuler was dead, Townsend had stepped back. With no emotion on his face, he had dropped the corpse to the floor and turned. In his hand he had held -

"Schuler's heart."

Hogan jumped at this sudden interruption and whipped around to face Kinch.

"Yes." He was suddenly overtaken by a crippling stab of grief for Carter - _their_ Carter.

Kinch sighed. Hogan saw him swallow several times, and noticed the way he kept compulsively wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. "Where do you think he is now?" he asked, meaning Townsend.

"I don't know."

"He told Dietrich that he would let Carter go once Schuler was dead."

"Hmm." Hogan's non-committal answer suggested that they would be foolish to rely on Townsend's word. Wilson, after a quick look at the others, had come over to join them and was bent over Newkirk, taking his pulse.

Hogan glanced at the others. Baker and Olsen were awake, and as Hogan watched, Foster seemed to be responding to Lebeau's prodding. Hogan couldn't help but smile a little at that. _If there's one thing that takes Lebeau's mind off of his own phobia, it's someone else needing him._

"How is Newkirk?" Hogan asked the medic.

"He's breathing. I don't feel any broken bones, and I can't be sure, but I don't think that there's any internal damage." Wilson was brief and to the point, "The biggest worry is shock. His skin is cool and his breathing is a little too shallow for my liking."

"What can we do?"

"Take off your coats. We need to keep him warm. We also need to elevate his feet." To this end, Wilson removed his own coat, folded it, and placed it under Newkirk's legs. He then covered the Englishman with Hogan's and Kinch's coats.

"Can we move him?"

"I'd rather not," he began, but then looked around, "but then I don't suppose help will be coming here anytime soon." He put the back of his hand to Newkirk's face. "Can we give it ten minutes?" he asked.

Hogan nodded reluctantly. "Ten minutes, no more." He and Kinch went to help the others.

"How much longer before Dodd starts evacuating the camp?" Kinch asked, after pulling Hogan discreetly aside.

Hogan rubbed his eyes and then squinted at his watch. "Roughly three hours. That is, if this is still the same night as we left, which right now I'm finding very hard to believe."

"I know what you mean. It was only this morning, well yesterday morning now, that Baker and Lebeau and I were trapped in the tunnel's guest quarters, but it feels like another lifetime. Another lifetime and a million years ago."

Hogan paused, and in the feeble light Kinch saw a look of regret and embarrassment on his CO's face. "Kinch, I'm sorry…" he started.

"I know sir. But don't worry about it right now. Not while we're all still in the middle of this whole mess. Besides, I don't think it was all _you_. I mean, I can hardly believe it now, but I was beginning to doubt your leadership for awhile there. I have to say Colonel, that I wouldn't have dreamed of doing that if my thoughts had been my own. Townsend was playing us against one another so that we wouldn't be paying attention to him. I don't think anyone should be held accountable for his behaviour in those conditions, and as far as I'm concerned Colonel, we're square."

Hogan smiled and slapped his adjutant lightly on the shoulder. "Thanks Kinch," he said quietly, but sincerely.

In the meantime, Lebeau had gotten Foster on his feet, and Baker and Olsen had done their best to fashion a stretcher for Newkirk by tying some of their coats together. After Wilson gave Newkirk's pulse another quick check, they placed him gently on it and started to work their way out.

* * *

It was a slow and awkward procession that carried the unconscious man up to the outside world. Emerging from the tunnel, and despite the driving gale, they stared into the sky as if they had never seen it before. They had forgotten the storm, had almost forgotten even the real world itself, and yet time and nature had gone on, not knowing or caring about what had happened to them.

Hogan figured that it would take them about an hour to get back to camp, maybe more because of the bad weather, and decided that that gave them a little under two hours to search for Carter. He also decided to send Wilson and Newkirk back to the truck, and ordered Baker to go with them. This did not make the junior radio man happy and he was about to object when Hogan forestalled him.

"Look Baker, I don't have time to argue with you. If it were up to me, we'd all be looking, but Wilson will be tending to Newkirk and he'll need a lookout. And it's not like he can carry Peter there by himself anyway. Now get going!"

Baker knew better than to disobey an order. He nodded in agreement and picked up one end of the make-shift litter. Hogan sighed. He knew that Baker, like Kinch, was a brave and loyal man who resented not being able to do more, especially when his friends were in danger. But it couldn't be helped. He wished he could send Kinch and Foster back as well. Foster, though up and around, was still too shaky and quiet, and Kinch - if any German did come upon them, even his gun in Kinch's back might not convince them that the black man was under control. For Kinch, even to have been seen as having made a break for it, would put him in more jeopardy than if he was back at the truck, safely "under guard". But then, to send them back would mean two less sets of eyes on a search that was already a long shot at best.

_There's never a good answer is there_, he thought bitterly as he watched them go, pointing one of the flashlights out to light their way as far as the road.

* * *

Between the time it had taken them to stumble and skid their way down the muddy road in the dark, lugging Newkirk between them, and then to get him into the truck and settled, Baker estimated that nearly a half an hour had passed when they heard the voices of the two arguing men over the droning wail of the storm. Immediately he and Wilson crouched down and tried to flatten themselves against the inside of the truck's canopy, holding their breaths.

Baker peered over the edge of the truck's tailgate. Townsend had parked his stolen staff car about twenty yards behind them, and now he and Heidemann were there. Squinting fiercely, Baker could just barely make out the darker shadow of the broad man's back against the night sky.

"How come the others didn't spot them?" Wilson whispered.

"I don't know," Baker said. Townsend's car would have been a fairly obvious place for him to go. "Could've missed them in the dark - rain like this, even with a flashlight, you're nearly walking blind. But probably Townsend went through the woods and then doubled back."

"Gerald! I will not let you do this!" they heard Heidemann yell.

"Do you think they know that we're here," Wilson asked.

"I don't know, but I'm going to get out. Heidemann might need some help. You stay here with Newkirk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Baker said as he eased himself slowly over the tailgate, keeping as low as possible. Once out he hugged his body close to the truck and worked his way towards the front, away from the confrontation. After that he lowered himself into a slight gully that ran alongside the road, hoping that would help him keep out of sight while he stalked back towards the two men by the staff car.

As he got closer, their words became clearer. He heard Townsend as he had to take a couple of deep, wracking breaths before he could answer.

"Leave off George," the Englishman panted in a shuddery, weak voice. Baker winced inwardly; without its authoritative confidence, it sounded so much more like his friend's than it had before. A sudden memory came to him of Carter bringing him some books when he had been stuck in bed with the flu - he had no idea where Carter had gotten them, but it must have been while out on a mission - and he suddenly realized just what the barracks would be like without the demolitions man.

Determined, he worked his way even closer.

"No Gerald. You said that you would let him go," Heidemann argued.

"Well," Townsend had to break off and take a deeper breath, "things change." Moving a bit further, Baker could just make out the shape of the man in front of the German, hanging onto the open front door of the staff car and ready to collapse.

"Things change?" Heidemann shouted. "What sort of answer is that? You have what you wanted Gerald - now let him go!"

"No."

"I will not let you take him."

"Really now George, I don't see…how you can stop me."

"I certainly think I'm capable of overpowering you now."

"Ah true…_cough cough_…that may be a possibility, I'll give you that, though you may also find that I still have a few…surprises left." Townsend let out a wheezing laugh, "But think, you have no way of forcing me to leave this body. So where does that leave you? What exactly do you propose to do? Hold me and wait for the young fellow to die?"

"Why are you doing this Gerald?"

Townsend slammed his fist down on the roof of the car. "Because I deserve it!" he screamed out in a rage. "Because I _did not _get what I wanted, but I put an end to the bastard anyway! With no help at all! Not from God, not from Fate, not from my friends! I did it, and now I'm going to take my reward!"

"Your reward?"

"I'm going home - to England."

_Damnit no! Carter won't last that long! _Baker protested silently.

"England? Be reasonable Gerald, Carter won't survive until you reach England!" Heidemann argued, unconsciously echoing Baker's thought. As he squatted there, hidden from the two men, he could hear the thread of a desperate plea running through Heidemann's voice at the idea of another life on his conscience.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I may be able to afford him some rest - the hard part is over now, after all. But it is only important that he get me as far as he can. After that I'll just find someone else."

"NOOOO!" The frantic cry rent through the night just as a flash of lightning and its accompanying crash of thunder shook the air around them. Stunned, Baker watched helplessly as Newkirk rushed towards the scene, flailing around wildly, like a drunk stepping off a carnival ride. Baker heard Wilson shouting at Newkirk to stop, that he was too weak to be up, before he was finally able to react. He leaped up but was a second too late to prevent Newkirk from stumbling into Heidemann's back and falling to the ground.

"Newkirk, calm down!" Baker pleaded, all the while glancing around anxiously and praying that there were no real Germans within earshot. It was highly unlikely, he thought, but with the way their luck had been going, there'd be a platoon just over the next hill.

Seeing Heidemann momentarily distracted, Townsend moved quickly to get into the car.

"Stop him!" Newkirk yelled feebly, as Baker and Wilson struggled to haul him to his feet and get him out of the way. Heidemann attempted to pull the door open, but then found himself flying through the air, only to crash into the three POWs. Untangling himself as fast as he could, he saw a violently trembling Townsend just managing to put the car into gear. Without hesitation, the older man whipped out his Luger and shot out the nearest tire. Inside the car Townsend shrieked in anger and beat his hands against the steering wheel.

"Get out of the car Townsend," Heidemann ordered.

Townsend burst out of the car. _"What in the hell did you do that for?" _he screamed. Blood began to gush from his nose again, but he paid it no mind, sheer fury giving him a second wind.

"To stop you Gerald. And if I can't stop you then I'm going to die at least slowing you down, because I'll let the Lord God Almighty damn me to Hell before I let you do this!" Heidemann spotted Townsend's nearly imperceptible look towards the truck. "Don't even think about it Gerald," he ordered and calmly aimed his weapon at the truck's back tires. "Even if you push me away again, I'll still have time to shoot."

Townsend considered it and made no move towards the truck. Instead, he turned and started walking away from them. Heidemann made to run after him, but Townsend whipped his head around and the German impostor was thrown backwards again, hitting Wilson and pulling the medic down into a heap on the ground.

"NO! You're not going to take him!" Newkirk spat out and fought himself free of Baker's hold.

"Newkirk calm down!" Baker ordered as he lunged at the Englishman, but Newkirk pulled away.

"Yes, do calm down Corporal," Townsend said. The tone would have been patronizing if the voice hadn't sounded so weary.

"No! I won't let you take him!"

"This is becoming ridiculous," Townsend said and turned to walk away once more.

Newkirk pulled out his pistol. Despite exhaustion and shock, he grabbed Townsend and shoved him against the car. He pointed the pistol in Townsend's face.

Which was also Carter's face.

"Newkirk!" Baker gasped, "Newkirk, for the love of God, what are you doing?"

But Townsend didn't bat an eyelash. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice was low and raspy, but composed. "Really now Corporal, I would have thought that _you_ at least would have been able to grasp the essential point here."

Newkirk said nothing and Baker thought that he was weeping, but it was hard to tell in the rain.

"You cannot kill someone who is already dead," said an exasperated Townsend. "What is it that you could possibly hope to achieve?"

Newkirk stepped back, but kept the pistol pointed at his friend's face. "I won't let you take him." Then he lowered the pistol to where it was pointing at Carter's leg. "You won't get very far with a broken knee cap, so you might as well let him go. And you won't stay in there while he's in so much pain in any case, will you?"

"Not a tested hypothesis I'm afraid," Townsend said. "Besides, I think it's highly likely that so much blood loss would kill Sergeant Carter more quickly than anything else at…at this point." Townsend suddenly clutched at the roof of the car, swaying on his feet, and then continued, "You can't win, you know."

"That's a bleedin' laugh - look at the state of you!"

"I may be weak Corporal, but no one…can force me out of this body before I'm ready to leave it. No one can hurt me…at least not without killing your friend. He's the perfect hostage."

A furious Newkirk howled with frustration. With all of his meagre strength, he grabbed hold of the front of Townsend's coat and cocked the gun. "Get out of him now, because one way or another he's going to be free of you!"

The other three rushed forward to stop him, but pulling Townsend in front of him, he tightened his grip on the gun and gave them a warning look.

Despite the obvious harshness of his breathing, Townsend smiled. For a brief second Baker almost wished Newkirk would shoot the bastard, just to wipe that damned smirk off of his face. "It's rather touching of you…to feign such concern for your young friend Corporal. But he's already been made well aware…of how you truly feel."

Newkirk's eyes widened with horror. "What?" he asked breathlessly, as if he had been punched in the stomach, and he lowered the gun slightly without noticing.

"In fact, perhaps it's not _me_ that you want to shoot at all."

Newkirk stood there, open-mouthed with shock.

"One Yank is as guilty as another, is that it?"

"Shut up," Newkirk whispered hoarsely, "Just shut up." The others could only look at each other, not comprehending.

"If you couldn't get at _him_, you'd get at your friend. Faulty reasoning at best, I must say."

"Shut up," Newkirk repeated a little more loudly.

"Now, now, such hos…hostility." Townsend's eyelids were heavy and he had had to say the last word twice before he could get it out, but the smirk was still on his face. He had shown that he still had an option or two up his sleeve, a few buttons still to press. "And yet it was your young friend…that you were so intent on punishing before."

"_Shut your bleedin' gob!" _Newkirk cried out.

Townsend, unperturbed, moved his face closer to Newkirk's. He looked the English Corporal in the eyes. "I don't guess that in your life there have been that many people who have ever trusted you. Let me go…and perhaps - just perhaps - there won't be one less."

A beaten Newkirk finally lowered the gun, and as he did, his knees buckled and he fell. Baker and Wilson quickly hurried over to their fallen comrade and heard him moaning not to let Townsend go, but Townsend had turned and was already walking away.

Baker tried to go after him - it was not as though Townsend had the strength to run - but he couldn't. In his head, he was willing his feet to move, but in reality he was unable to do anything more than stand there and stare sadly at Townsend's - _Carter's_ - retreating back as the man shuffled away down the road and into the night. Wilson and Heidemann seemed to be having the same problem, but then Baker heard a furious growl erupt from the German, and saw him wrench his right leg free and step forward. He couldn't go that fast, Baker saw, but he was able to push his way forward after the escaping man with an awkward, twisted limb type of gait.

Townsend turned to look at him, irritated at yet another delay.

"Gerald, leave Carter," Heidemann pleaded. "I'll take you to England."

Townsend snorted. "A generous offer George, but really, I don't…I don't have the time."

"How can you refuse? You're so weak now that you cannot finish a sentence without taking a breath."

"You are wasting my time."

Heidemann lowered his voice. "You can't, can you? You're too weak to make the transfer now."

Townsend started walking again.

"No Gerald." Heidemann grabbed a hold of Carter's thin arm. "You aren't leaving until you tell me how you expect to get all the way to England when you know Carter won't last that long."

Townsend paused, then answered quietly, without looking at Heidemann. "I'll be capable of making the transfer more easily…when I'm freed of this body naturally."

"In other words, when Carter dies - is that it Gerald? Are you telling me that you _cannot_ leave Carter until he's dead?"

In spite of all that he had done, and all that he was threatening to do, Gerald Townsend found it singularly difficult to lie to his last friend.

"I can leave the body now, but only…only in such a way that I…would lose myself. I would lose what little…mental cohesion, what sense of consciousness that…I now have."

"Gerald, did you ever consider that maybe that is what is supposed to happen? That it's what should have happened all those years ago? It was your time, and you've already denied it once."

"What a tremendously arrogant thing to say George," Townsend exclaimed. "I wonder if…when it's your time…if you'll be so willing to leap into oblivion."

"I can't answer that."

"No, you can't. So don't presume to argue…with my answer."

"Fine. Then tell me Gerald, as a man who has faced death, and as a parent, what do we tell Carter's family?"

"_What?"_

"Tell me what we'll tell his parents! What can we say to make this easier for them? What would you want to hear upon learning that your Sarah or your Christopher _died, _simply so that someone else could have a few more hours? Tell me."

For an eternity, Townsend stared at Dietrich Heidemann, his eyes smouldering, his body vibrating with suppressed rage. Then, with a visibly excruciating effort, he pulled all of his emotions inward.

"Tell them that he did his duty."

With that, Townsend waved his hand. Heidemann believed that it was the last vestige of power that Townsend was capable of exerting, but it was enough to push him down and hold him there while Townsend disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

It was a drenched and disheartened search party that trudged back to the truck roughly an hour later, only to be met with disastrous news. Wilson was tending to Newkirk, who had passed out shortly after his confrontation with Townsend, and so it was left to Baker and Heidemann to tell the story.

His men waited anxiously while a grim and stone-faced Hogan listened. When Baker finished Hogan was silent for a moment, before looking at Wilson.

"How's Newkirk?"

"I don't like his symptoms, but I've done all I can do for him here. We need to get him back to camp. He should be taken to a hospital really."

Hogan nodded. "Olsen, do you feel up to driving?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright, we're going back to camp."

"Back to camp Colonel? We aren't going to keep looking for Carter?" Lebeau asked.

"We don't have time Corporal. We have to get back before Dodd starts evacuating the men."

"But…"

"Look, do you think I want to leave Andrew out here? Do you think that this is easy for me? But how many men are going to be at risk in a mass escape? It's not like I can have London send planes to pick up every one of them. They won't know to send any planes at all. And what about Newkirk? We can't leave him in a German hospital - he'd be a sitting duck after the Gestapo tears apart an empty Stalag - and it would be too hard on him to make the trip to England. Not to mention, we'd be trying to continue a search while half the German army is here looking for a thousand escaped prisoners." His tone softened slightly, "And for what? What hopes do we have of finding Carter in the dark? And what could we do if we did find him?"

His men could tell how it killed Hogan to admit that, that this time he didn't have an answer, that this time he couldn't pull a rabbit out of his hat and save them all. They sat there in the back of the truck, miserable and silent while Olsen climbed in front and started off.

All was quiet for a bit. Other than Olsen occasionally shifting gears and Wilson periodically checking his patient, the men were still. Numbed and dead-eyed with exhaustion, they stared out at nothing, hypnotized by the rain and absorbed in their own thoughts.

Hogan moved over to sit by Kinch, who was at the back of the truck and had one arm dangling out over the upright tailgate.

"Aren't you getting wet?" he asked his radioman. _He really should be further inside_, Hogan thought, his mind always thinking of the need to blend in.

"What? Oh, yeah. I guess I am." He pulled his arm in.

Hogan sighed tiredly and leaned his head back. "Penny for your thoughts," he said after another moment.

"I was thinking that it was too bad that you had given Dodd those orders," Kinch began, holding up his hand when Hogan looked at him sharply. "I know you had to sir. Honestly, I'm not questioning that," he said quickly. "With seven prisoners gone, including the camp's only officer, the Gestapo would be crawling through the woodwork, and if the others hadn't escaped by then, they'd have no chance at all. I just can't stand leaving him out here, that's all. Not like this. It'd be bad enough if things were normal, if _he_ was normal, but what's going to happen to him now?"

"We're not going to give up yet Kinch. We'll come back out tonight after roll call and keep looking."

"Do you really think there's any hope Colonel?"

Hogan looked away for a moment before answering. "Well, there's always some hope, right?"

"Right," Kinch sighed, not believing it. "There's always some hope."

* * *

It was close to half an hour before anyone said anything again. They sat in a collective stupor, listening to the whining howl of the storm outside. Intermittent flashes of things they had witnessed that night began to clarify in their minds, but mostly they were still numb; unable to muster the energy to focus on anything besides the long journey back to camp.

_This is bad_, Hogan thought. Needing to do something, anything to keep his mind alert, he made his way carefully forward and asked Olsen if he was alright. Olsen said he was.

"You sure Matt? You don't need anyone to spell you?"

"No sir, I'm fine." Olsen never took his eyes off the road while speaking to Hogan, but there was the same dull, stupid with fatigue, look to him that Hogan could see with the others and so he decided to stay close.

He found himself sitting next to their German impostor. Hogan did not really want to talk to him; he couldn't make out what he thought about the man, but right now there was still an overwhelming feeling of rage seething inside him, one that was becoming increasingly directed towards the older man.

"I'm afraid you'll have to come back to camp with us. We don't have time to take you back home," he said finally, his voice curt.

"I understand."

"You can stay in the tunnels until after evening roll call. I'll have someone escort you home when we go out to look for Carter tonight."

"I'm sure I can find my own way back, old eyes or not, but I'd much rather help you search for Sergeant Carter."

"No."

"Please Colonel Hogan, think. I'll have more freedom of movement than you will; once your Kommandant finds Sergeant Carter missing, the patrols will be - "

"The patrols are our concern. I said no. By tonight, you'll have been gone a full day. Anyone watching you will get suspicious."

"Why would anyone be watching me?"

"Why the hell does anyone watch anyone in this damn country? Friends turn in friends - it keeps the Gestapo off their own doorsteps." Hogan's vehement tone made several of the men closest to him look up. He lowered his voice.

"You'll go back and stay put until this is over," he ordered. The meaning was implicit: _don't call us, we'll call you._

Heidemann understood, but still grew angry. He was about to argue that he was not under Hogan's command when Olsen, rounding a corner, slammed violently on the brakes, pitching them all forward.

"Matt? What is - " Hogan broke off.

There, his face gleaming like a ghost in the headlights, was Carter.

* * *

All of the men in the back, except Wilson and the unconscious Newkirk, leaped out and dashed around to the front to stare at the implacable figure blocking their way. Only Olsen remained, too stunned and shaken to realize that he was talking to himself. "Just appeared out of nowhere! Hell's bells - he just came outta nowhere!" The logical part of his brain told him that this probably wasn't true, that it was just the effect of coming around the corner and catching the pale man in the headlights, coupled with the shock of nearly running someone down, but he still sat there feeling like a gaping-mouthed fish who'd just been pulled from the water and whacked against the side of the boat.

The others halted on each side of the truck's cab. "How did he get here before us?" Hogan heard Lebeau whisper to Kinch.

"His shoes are covered with leaves; he must have cut across through the woods," his radioman answered.

Carter continued to stand there, rain streaming down his face, making no move. Hogan took a couple of cautious steps towards him.

"Carter?" he called out gently.

The figure straightened slightly, coming to life. It didn't respond, but by the way it suddenly glared at Heidemann, Hogan had his answer.

_No, not Carter_.

Heidemann moved forward. Beside Lebeau, Olsen slowly opened his door and got out to join his friends in case there was trouble.

"Gerald?" Heidemann got close enough to touch him.

"Damn you George. Damn you to Hell," Townsend muttered. He looked smaller to them now, standing there hunched and shivering, his hair plastered to his forehead, but they were still reluctant to make a move. Townsend's voice was weak, but it was steadier than before.

"I could have won," Townsend continued.

"I know," his friend agreed softly.

"I didn't want this, not always. There were times, in the darkness, when I only wanted to see England once more. To see my family one last time."

Heidemann's voice was sympathetic. "But that wasn't what you chose, was it? You chose to stop Schuler."

"I had to."

"Yes, I know. He had to be stopped, I see that now. No matter what the reason, I believe that you made the only choice you could have."

No one moved or spoke for a few moments, then Townsend murmured, "You know, he felt no remorse. None at all. He was proud of his work. He thought that he was a visionary. A bloody goddamned visionary."

"Is that what you wanted? For him to feel remorse?"

"Mmmm?" Townsend seemed to be drifting away.

"Before, when you said that you hadn't got what you wanted."

"Mostly, I suppose. I wanted him to _see_, to _know_ what a terrible thing he had done. I wanted him to be afraid, not just of pain and death, but of his retribution in Hell."

"You wanted him to repent."

"Yes." Townsend sighed, "I don't know if I expected it, but I wanted it. But I never saw that fear in his eyes. Oh, he was scared enough for his own skin, but he never realized what was wrong with what he had done. It was all just so wretchedly futile."

"Was it so important? Wasn't it enough to rid the world of such a monster?"

"It should have been. But when I did what I thought that I had been destined to do, I found no gratification, no fulfillment. Trapped in the darkness for seven years; I don't think you can conceive of just what kind of hell that is. I needed so much out of this. I needed to believe that someone wanted me to do this, but in the end I was alone. Most of all, there were no answers." Townsend's shoulders fell, and for the first time in all the years Dietrich Heidemann had known him, he sounded lost and unsure.

"Answers?"

Townsend gave him a regretful smile. "I hope there will be more for you George, when the time comes."

"Is that why you went back on your promise to let Carter go? Revenge against God for feeling abandoned?"

"I felt betrayed. If no reward was coming, then I would take one. I deserve that much, don't I? I deserve to go home."

"Yes, you do Gerald." It was the voice of George Allen, his friend, who sadly argued, "But then, so does Andrew Carter."

Townsend nodded. He inhaled deeply and they sensed that he was about to leave, when he looked at Heidemann one last time.

"Was there any point to it at all George? There are so many more like him out there."

"All that I can tell you Gerald, is that evil is a tremendous thing, and people are small. We can only pick away at it. But if enough people were to pick away at the Great Wall of China, it would eventually crumble."

"A bit trite George," Townsend said, "but I suppose that it will have to do." And with that, he was gone. Carter's eyes rolled back in his head. His body jerked convulsively and then the edges around him seemed to blur almost imperceptibly with a misty whiteness, which dissipated just before he crashed heavily to the ground.

* * *

_Author's note:_

_I hope no one feels cheated by the shortness of the part dealing with Schuler's experiments; I realize that it perhaps takes away from the story's climax a bit. It was originally a chapter in itself, but I began to feel uncomfortable with how I had written it. It's one thing to use real events for the premise of a story, but I felt that I had crossed a line somewhere, and that presenting such grisly details - even if they could never possibly be as horrific as the real events - was exploiting a tragedy for sensationalism alone. Especially since before I started writing this story, I had only ever intended to write a short little thing for Halloween._

_Schuler however, was modelled on absolute monsters, and so as far as I'm concerned, his death couldn't be gory enough. _


	16. the road back

**Emanations of Hate **

**_Chapter 16_**

The prisoners ward at the hospital was a dingy place. The beds were old, the sheets were worn and the musty smell made Hogan think of his grandfather's basement. The entire atmosphere suggested that it was make-shift, and of little importance to the rest of the hospital. Certainly the attitudes of the staff - vacillating between indifference and outright resentment - were meant to imply that he should be grateful that they were bothering to treat his men at all.

Hogan shifted irritably on his chair; it was uncomfortable enough to keep exhausted man from even dozing. He had had no sleep since the brief nap he had taken just before he had been driven down into the tunnels the previous evening.

After Carter had collapsed, they had raced back to camp, Wilson arguing the whole way. The conscientious medic, his nerves frayed, knew that he was in over his head. The best he could do for the two men was to treat their symptoms, and Carter's symptoms most closely resembled those of hypothermia. While Newkirk was relatively stable, to Wilson, the idea of carrying Carter down through the tunnels and up into the barracks, only to take him to the hospital five minutes later, was not only ridiculous, but exceedingly dangerous. Hogan nearly had a revolt on his hands when Wilson said that Carter's heart might be extremely sensitive, and that any unnecessary motion might cause cold blood to be pumped to it and kill him. Then Lebeau had shouted that there was no way that Colonel Hogan should let Carter and Newkirk anywhere near "those bastard Boshe doctors" and a whole new argument had started up. It was still going strong by the time Olsen stopped the truck and Hogan finally bellowed at them to shut their traps.

At the tunnel entrance they had practically collided with Private Gilmour, who had been nervously chomping at the bit at the head of the evacuation line. Hogan harshly ordered all the men back to their barracks, saying that if they weren't in their bunks within the next five minutes, he would have them all up on the largest collective court-martial in military history. They then carried the stricken men as carefully, yet as quickly, as possible, with Wilson nagging, "Be careful now, don't jostle'em," until Hogan ordered him to get to his own barracks.

"Colonel - "

"WILSON GO! And make sure you get into your bunk before Schultz comes for you!"

"Alright, but move'em slowly. And for God's sake, get'em out of those wet clothes. And put Newkirk on a lower bunk, it'll be easier - "

"Wilson, I'm not going to say it again!" Wilson wisely shut up and put on some speed.

After they had lifted the two men through the barracks entrance, they had placed Newkirk on Carter's bunk, where Kinch and several of the others started pulling the wet German uniform off of him. Carter was taken directly into Hogan's quarters, where Lebeau started to do the same thing for him, gulping a bit involuntarily because Carter's clothes were so saturated with blood that even all of the rain hadn't washed it all away. But upon opening the American's shirt, Lebeau had gasped.

"Colonel, look at this," Lebeau said.

"What the hell?" Carter's chest had been covered with fading yellow-green bruises, which stood out in a starkly ugly way against the unnatural whiteness of his skin. More than that, he was so thin that his ribs were plainly visible. Now that they could see him in a good light, they could see how lean and bony his face looked. For a brief second Hogan puzzled over the matter, but then he noticed the bluish-grey tinge to Carter's complexion and he told Lebeau, "Forget about that for now, just get him warmed up." Nevertheless, he rushed into the main room to check on Newkirk, who luckily - other than being pale, worn out and unconscious at the moment - appeared to be fine.

Now he was here, sitting between two of his men, in a German hospital, waiting for them to wake up and hopefully be able to explain what had happened to them. Through the bars on the small window he watched the rain outside, which had slackened into an all-day downpour. Its constant, steady patter against the glass and the dim, grey daylight were vaguely soothing. It was the first quiet he had had in what had to have been the longest twenty-four hours of his life. That morning, staggering with blind fatigue, he had not been in top form when arguing with Klink. It had been more honest pleading than his usual persuasion and manipulation that had finally convinced the German to order that Carter and Newkirk be taken to the hospital. Backed up by Wilson - who had been just as confused at Carter's bruises and starved condition - the only "angle" he had worked that morning in the Kommandant's office had been to play on Klink's hypochondria. Threats of an unknown epidemic, which might pass to the guards and then to him, practically had Klink driving the truck himself.

The two men's symptoms were confusing and in many ways contradictory, and the doctors were perplexed, or they would have been if they had been more concerned. Wilson fielded most of their questions; in an unusually preoccupied state most of the conversation had gone right past Hogan. The doctors' casual theorizing became mere background noise to his own thoughts. At one point Wilson, after having to repeat a question to him several times, shot him a look that said that the Germans were finding his behaviour strange. After he had finally mumbled an answer, they continued speculating, this time on "weak-willed Americans" who "get distracted over the state of every enlisted man under them" and how this would cost them the war. Hogan's only thought at the time was about their arrogance; they spoke, and even laughed, as if neither he or Wilson were in the room. _Does it have to do with being a doctor or being a Nazi? _Hogan wondered.

But now ironically, he was asking himself the same question. Have I gotten too close to them? After all that they've been through, will I be able to send them out again? He knew that he had done the right thing in going back to camp first; that he had put the operation and the rest of the men before the welfare of two, but it had been so hard. Almost too hard. And it bothered him that he hadn't considered, or even thought of, any alternatives at the time. Worry had muddled his thinking and clouded his judgement. He asked himself, _Did I go back to camp because it was the right thing to do, or because I couldn't think of anything else? _But all of his thinking now still hadn't given him any other ideas, and he was forced to concede that going back to camp had been the wisest thing to do from a practical standpoint, it had kept every other man in the camp safe and the operation intact, which had to be his priorities, but…

But he had to admit it to himself, going back hadn't just been hard, it had nearly torn the heart right out of him. And what did that say about his ability to command these men? These men who had become his friends?

He glanced over at Carter and cursed himself. _Let's see if they recover first, before you worry about sending them out again._

A nurse came in. She gave Newkirk a perfunctory check and then went to adjust the IV tube in Carter's arm with all of the interest of someone who is thinking more about her shift ending in half an hour than about the sick person in front of her. When Hogan asked how they were doing, she gave him the rote reply that all nurses repeat the world over: _you'll have to ask the doctor_. Hogan found himself not wanting to know if she was like this with every patient, or if it was just Allied POWs that were beneath her concern.

Things fell silent once again, and Hogan wished that he hadn't sent Wilson back with Langenscheidt. He could have used someone to talk to besides Schultz, who was at this moment sitting outside the door and sleeping nearly as deeply as Carter and Newkirk. Getting up to stretch his legs, he then stopped and leaned back against the window sill to stare down at Carter, who was in the bed closest to him.

Even cleaned up and in the warm, flannel pyjamas that the hospital had given him, Carter still looked chilled and bedraggled and lost somehow. Hogan wondered how much Carter would remember when he woke up, and dreaded finding out.

A murmur and a soft rustling of sheets came from the next bed. Hogan quickly went over to Newkirk's side.

"Peter?"

Newkirk moaned and struggled a bit more.

Hogan paused. He didn't know whether to wake the Englishman or to try and reassure him everything was alright and hope that he went back to sleep. As he watched though, Newkirk continued to grow more restless. Hogan decided to wake him. He shook Peter gently by the shoulder.

"Peter? Peter? Can you hear me? Wake up."

"No…won't let…" Newkirk's voice was slurred and dreamy. Hogan shook him a bit harder.

"Newkirk. Newkirk, it's Colonel Hogan. Wake up!"

Newkirk was quiet for a moment, then he rolled over slightly and the change in his breathing told Hogan that he was awake. "Colonel 'Ogan?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah Peter, it's me," Hogan smiled.

"Why are you shouting? And why's it so bright in 'ere?" Newkirk squinted and brought a hand up to cover his eyes. "It's doing me 'ead in!" he complained.

Hogan frowned. He hadn't been shouting and the room was actually quite dim. "I think maybe you just need a few minutes to adjust to being awake Newkirk," he said, trying to speak more quietly.

"Why? What's been 'appening? Where am I?" he asked drowsily.

"You're in the hospital Newkirk. We brought you here this morning."

"The 'ospital?" He started to become more agitated and tried to sit up. "What's going on?"

"Just lay down Peter. You're going to be fine. Try not to worry."

"No, let me up. Tell me what - " Newkirk demanded, and then suddenly froze. "Carter! Where's Carter?"

"It's okay Peter. See, he's right here."

Newkirk stared at the unconscious Carter. "Is 'e alright?"

"The doctors say he's stable for now."

"But, is it… _is it 'im?" _Newkirk asked hesitantly, watching Hogan out of the corner of his eye, half expecting his commanding officer wouldn't know what he was talking about.

Hogan sighed. He wanted to say yes, but… "I don't know Peter. He hasn't woken up yet," he finally replied.

Newkirk laid back down and the two men were silent for a long time. Hogan had a million questions, but he wasn't sure if Newkirk was in any state to answer them. After awhile he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly six in the evening.

"Newkirk? Are you still awake?"

"Yes sir."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," the Englishman answered flatly. Hogan examined him closely. After living together for so long he recognized Newkirk's expression. Apparently for Peter this fell under the heading of "Personal Matters", and Hogan knew that it would be useless to expect any substantial answers from him at the moment.

"Alright." Hogan accepted the silence for now. "Look, Schultz and I will be going as soon as the new guard arrives from camp. I don't know if Klink is going to let me come back, but if I can, is there anything you'd like me to bring you?"

"No."

"You sure? Maybe Louie can whip something up for you. I hate leaving you to the mercy of German hospital food." _I hate leaving both of you here, period_.

"Tell 'im not to bother. I don't feel very 'ungry."

"I expect you to eat, Corporal."

"Yes sir."

"I'm not kidding."

"Yes sir. I think Schultz is waking up."

"Yeah, sounds like Bergman is here to replace him. Are you sure you're feeling okay? Is there anything you'd like me to ask the doctors for?"

"No sir."

Hogan, reluctant to leave, hung around while Bergman and Schultz chatted outside. Newkirk seemed troubled - Hogan hadn't heard so many _sirs_ out of him since they had first met - and he hated to leave either man surrounded by the enemy when they were so obviously in no fit state to defend themselves. But what could he do? He had to hope that the doctors here were more interested in their Hippocratic Oaths than in being diligent Nazis. And after all that he had witnessed the night before, that was a serious question. He prayed that he would not come to wish that he had listened to Lebeau.

"Guv'nor?" Newkirk suddenly asked, breaking Hogan's disturbing train of thought.

"Yes?"

"You know what 'appened to us? I mean, you know what was wrong with us, right?

Hogan came close so that Schultz and Bergman wouldn't overhear. "Yeah Peter, I know."

"Do you believe it?"

"Yes, I believe it." It was amazing to Hogan how easy this was to say, how much his entire view of the world had changed in twenty-four hours.

"Well, that's a load off for a start. I was afraid you'd think I was off me nut." Newkirk tried to smile, but his heart wasn't in it, and Hogan sensed that there was something else coming.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz popped his head in, "Are you ready to go?"

"Could you give us a minute Schultz?" Hogan requested. Schultz, seeing Newkirk awake, nodded. Hogan turned back to face Newkirk.

"What is it Peter?"

"Do you think 'e'll be alright sir? When 'e wakes up, I mean. Do you think 'e'll be 'imself?"

"I'm not sure Peter, but I think so. After all, you seem to be alright."

"But it was different for 'im."

"What do you mean?"

_The others cannot suppress you in the same way that I can with this one. _He could still hear that voice in his head.

Newkirk was about to answer, when Schultz interrupted again. "I'm sorry Colonel Hogan, but we have to get back. The Kommandant will want to hear our report."

"Schultz, please - "

Newkirk broke in, "It's alright Colonel, I can't explain it anyway. All I know is that Andrew's going to 'ave a 'arder time of it."

"Okay, okay. Look, I'll - "

"Try to be back tomorrow. I know, sir. I'll pinch a nurse for you," Newkirk said, taking a weak stab at humour.

Hogan grimaced. "I wouldn't bother if I were you, Newkirk."

* * *

As the next day dragged on, Newkirk realized that, for a wonder, Colonel Hogan must not have been able to talk Klink into letting him come back to visit his men in the hospital. Newkirk therefore passed a lonely and exceedingly tedious day, broken up only by the nurse's one visit first thing in the morning. Feeling very out of sorts - headachey and nauseous mostly - he hadn't bothered to make a play for her, and after she left he understood why the Colonel had said not to bother. She had asked him brief questions as to how he felt, but when he tried to answer, she cut him off saying, "Well, that's to be expected," and left. _Might as well be invisible, for all this lot seems to care_, he thought.

Still, he would have made more of an effort if he had known that that was all the conversation he was going to have for the day. No doctor came to examine them, and as wretched as he felt, he was more put out by that for Carter's sake than his own. _What kind of bleeding place is this? _Outside, Sergeant Groener stood alertly at attention. Groener was an alright bloke for a Gerry, he supposed, not a foaming at the mouth, over-zealous Nazi or anything; but he was an older fellow, a veteran of the first war, and too honourable and by the book for Hogan to let him anywhere near their operation, and so Newkirk figured he wouldn't be the type to chat with a prisoner and keep him company.

So that left only the motionless Sergeant lying in the bed beside his.

Who still hadn't stirred. Not once.

Newkirk could not bring himself to look at him. He tried to sleep, but couldn't. Too restless to relax, but too listless for any activity, he tried looking out the window for awhile, but the bars and the overcast sky just depressed him more. Feeling peevish, he was irritated at the others for not ignoring what he had told the Colonel and slipping a few magazines or a deck of cards to Groener to pass along. _Or something form Lebeau - that hospital lunch was a right mess. _He picked away at a hole in his mattress and listened to the clock's ticking drilling each second into his head until he thought he would go mad. The day finally came to an end when he fell into a heavy and sullen sleep around midnight.

* * *

"I do. I do remember."

At first Schultz, who had come on guard duty at the hospital at midnight, thought that he was back at camp. He was dreaming that Sergeant Carter was telling him something. Carter seemed upset.

"I do too remember!" the words insisted again, pulling Schultz out of a light doze. Jerking awake with a snort, he glanced around, confused for a second as to where he was. Remembering finally, he looked at his watch in the faint light of the corridor. It was about twenty minutes to three.

"Stop it! Stop it! I do remember them! I do feel bad!" the voice moaned.

_It's Carter! _ Schultz realized. After a quick look to make sure that frowning night nurse wasn't around, he ducked into the prisoners' room.

"Why are you doing this?" For a moment Schultz thought that Carter was speaking to him, but then he realized that Carter was either dreaming or delirious. Schultz padded over quietly so as not to wake Newkirk, and shook Carter gently.

"What is it Carter?"

"I do remember. Don't want to, but I do!" Schultz wished that he knew what the young man was talking about. Whatever it was, it was obviously disturbing Carter very much.

Carter's body tensed and his breathing grew rapid. "I do! Every time!" he cried out. Eyes still clenched tightly shut, he started writhing desperately on the bed. Schultz did his best to quiet the troubled man, but nothing seemed to help.

"No! I do remember! I'm not like him! I'm not like that!" he protested to no one that Schultz could see, but his voice sounded unsure, as if he didn't quite believe his own words.

"Wake up Carter! Nothing is wrong. You are having a nightmare." Schultz shook him again.

"No! Don't say that! I'm not like him! I'm not a monster! I'm not!"

"What's all the bleedin' racket?" Newkirk demanded.

"It is Carter. He is having a nightmare."

"What?" Newkirk leaped out of bed and was beside his friend in a heartbeat.

"Please Carter, wake up!" Schultz pleaded. There was something about all of this that he didn't like. However, he hesitated to shake the young man any more roughly, even though the doctors had said that Carter had no real physical injury.

"C'mon mate, wake up!"

"No! Stop it! Make it stop! I don't want to see! I don't want to see!" Carter sobbed in his sleep. "Let me go!"

"Sergeant Carter? Can you hear me? Wake up!" Schultz ordered and, against his better judgement, shook him a little more forcefully, but he couldn't rouse him. After a little while though, Carter's cries grew more faint and he once more drifted back into a heavy stupor.

* * *

All that he was conscious of was the pain. Muscle spasms racked his body as electrical impulses in his brain criss-crossed and sent out weird glitches. All the bones and joints in his arms and hands throbbed with pain leftover from the power that had coursed through them. His stomach twisted and churned, gnawing its way to his spine. But the worst was his head. A thousand pick axes had cracked and shattered his skull into as many pieces, and now a constant series of sonic explosions were vibrating those pieces mercilessly.

A cool, gentle hand descended onto his forehead. Bleary eyes flickered beneath heavy lids, but he couldn't see who was there. A voice spoke to him. After days of silent darkness the sound was unbearably loud, but the voice was familiar. It went on, trying to soothe him, and the hand brushed his hair back, relaxing him just enough so that he could finally escape the pain for a time.

* * *

Hogan and Langenscheidt were surprised to see no guard outside of the prisoners' room the next morning.

"Something must have happened," Hogan said. "Go find a doctor." Langenscheidt ran off, not stopping to consider that he had just taken an order from an enemy officer. Dreading what he might find, Hogan opened the door as gently as possible. Instead what he saw caused a corner of his mouth to quirk upwards.

Schultz and Newkirk were both sitting in chairs on either side of Carter's bed, fast asleep. _Aw shucks, looks like I wasn't invited to the Stalag 13 slumber party!_ Hogan thought. Tiptoeing in as quietly as he could, he still managed to wake one of the sleepers. To his surprise it was Carter who looked up at his entrance.

Pleasure turned to unease however, as Hogan got a better look at his munitions man. Carter was mumbling something unintelligible to himself, and his face was flushed and bathed in an unhealthy sweat. Glassy-eyed, he seemed not to see Hogan, and jerked back in panic when Hogan came near him.

"What precisely is going on here?" a strident voice suddenly demanded from behind him. Startled awake, Schultz and Newkirk nearly fell off their chairs. It was one of the doctors Hogan and Wilson had spoken to the other day. "Sergeant! Why are you not at your post? Why are you sitting in a prisoner's room? Exactly what kind of camp is that fool Klink running when his guards consort with the enemy?"

Carter cried out in the confusion, and started thrashing around wildly. As Newkirk rushed to calm him down, Hogan yelled, "I'd like to know what he's doing in here as well!"

"Guv'nor? Carter was sick last night - " Newkirk began, puzzled by Hogan's apparent anger at Schultz, but Hogan continued on as if he hadn't heard him.

He turned on the gaping Schultz, "What kind of game are you playing? I think it's a damn dirty trick to be spying on a sick man! Hoping to hear escape plans from a man with a fever!" Hogan vented all of the resentment he felt towards the hospital staff at the hapless guard, and hoped that the big man would realize that he was trying to cover for him. From the shocked way he was standing there though, he still hadn't caught on.

Newkirk had, but at the moment he had his hands full with the struggling Carter. "Look, if you lot would all just calm down, it would really be an 'elp." Carter, his gaze darting around frantically, was trying to pull his arms free of Newkirk's grip and was whimpering with fear and confusion. Hogan bent over Carter's bed and firmly, but gently, held him down.

"Andrew, calm down. Everything's alright, everything's fine, no one is going to hurt you," he said. Carter's kicking and squirming slowed down some.

"There's nothing to worry about now mate. 'Ere sir, watch his arm! That tube's near come out," Newkirk warned.

The doctor pushed his way past Hogan and Hogan saw Carter immediately stiffen and lock a terrified gaze on the man. The doctor however, failed to notice. He simply said, "Finally calmed down now I see." Carter laid there paralyzed when the man thrust a thermometer in his mouth and took his temperature. With a dismissive snort the doctor told him, "Your fever's not that high, Sergeant. There's no need for a grown man to make such a fuss, now is there?"

_No, unless you're sick and disorientated and frightened and some thoughtless jackass comes barging into your room to yell at a guard,_ Hogan fumed inwardly. Both he and Newkirk had seen the way Carter had grown even more rigid at the man's touch and was now clutching convulsively at the bed frame.

As the callous German grabbed hold of Carter's arm and readjusted the IV tube, Hogan's stomach took a violent turn and he felt a sudden, overwhelming compulsion to tackle the man to the ground. _What the hell? _he asked himself, but then it was clear. _A man in a white coat. Medical equipment. Damnit, no wonder Carter's so petrified - he's seeing Schuler!_

This done, the doctor pulled out a stethoscope out and complacently ordered everyone out of the room so that he could examine his patient. But at the word "examine" Carter screamed, and in one quick movement, rolled over and kicked the doctor right in the chest. The doctor - the wind knocked out of him - landed on his backside, gasping desperately for air. Everyone started yelling. Carter leaped out his bed - the tube in his arm coming free, causing blood to spurt crazily onto the floor - and bolted frantically for the door. But he was as weak as water and his legs folded up underneath him; a stunned Langenscheidt only just managing to catch him before he hit the ground.

The commotion of the next few minutes was in no way resolved by the arrival of two orderlies and a nurse. Carter punched and kicked futilely at Langenscheidt, screaming to be let go while Schultz attempted to help the injured doctor up, only to be obstructed by a plain, middle-aged nurse who did nothing but get in the way as she fussed and fawned over the doctor. The orderlies jerked Carter roughly out of Langenscheidt's grasp when the doctor wheezed out an accusation and pointed at him. Newkirk, furious at this, then attacked the orderlies, demanding they let go of Carter. Hogan, who had been trying to calm everyone down and explain, was now forced to jump into the fray to try to get Newkirk under control before he could be charged with brawling and assault.

Finally, a tall, grey-haired man with patrician features and an imperious air, strode in and bellowed for quiet.

"Dr. Wagner, just what is going on here?" he demanded of his younger colleague, who was still struggling for breath and now also trying to escape the clutches of his dowdy admirer.

"Dr. Koss…" Wagner panted.

"Nevermind Wagner. You and you," he pointed at the orderlies holding Carter, "get that man back in bed. Sedate and restrain him."

"What?" yelled Newkirk, at the same time Hogan said, "Now wait just a damned minute - "

"You! Sergeant! Take these two back to Stalag 13 and see that idiot Klink keeps them there. I'll have no more such disturbances in my hospital. Dr. Wagner, I wish to see you back on your normal rounds." He issued his commands with more authority than any General, and having done so, strode out with all the assurance of God that they would be followed.

"Wait Doctor!" Hogan grabbed the man's arm, "There's no need to restrain - "

"Sergeant, control your prisoners!" Koss ordered Schultz. The big guard quickly pulled Hogan away and dragged him to the far side of the room.

"But there's no need to restrain him!" Hogan shouted.

"_Colonel Hooogan puhleeze!" _Schultz begged. Hogan stopped, but only because Koss was already gone and the two orderlies had already dragged Carter back onto his bed and attached the leg restraints. Langenscheidt was keeping Newkirk off to one side and away from Carter with his rifle, and Schultz, though reluctant, looked prepared to do the same with Hogan.

"Please Colonel Hogan," Schultz repeated, "It will be much better for Carter if you do not make trouble. If he calms down they will not be so hard on him."

Hogan watched as the orderlies wrestled Carter's arms into restraints and then attended to the wound in his arm where the IV tube had come out. In such a weakened state he was no match for the two thick-shouldered men, but he still twisted and pulled in their grasps, weeping tears of bitter frustration.

"NEWKIRK!" Carter suddenly yelled, startling them. It was the first actual word he had said since he had woken. _"Newkirk! Please please let me out! Don't let them get me Peter!"_ he pleaded.

"Carter, try to calm down!" Hogan ordered. "They just don't want you to hurt yourself, that's all!" _That's all like hell, _he cursed, but Carter didn't need to hear that.

Carter continued shouting out for Newkirk as if he didn't even know Hogan was there. _"PETER PLEASE! THEY'LL GET ME PETER!_

"Carter, they're just going to give you something to help you get some rest!" Hogan tried to reason with the terrified man.

"_PLEASE PETER! PLEASE LET ME OUT!"_

Hogan looked at Newkirk to see how he was taking this. Newkirk was standing there, frozen with horror. He looked like he was in pain. It wasn't until Carter saw the orderly tapping the syringe and screamed, that Newkirk was able to react. Langenscheidt, unable to shoot, tried to grab his arm but he was too late to stop Newkirk from rushing the orderly with the needle. But the other orderly was quicker and knocked the Englishman roughly to the ground. Hogan and Schultz jumped in, and by sheer luck alone, managed to yank Newkirk away before the orderly could really go at it. They kept a hold of him as they heard Carter let out a long, plaintive sob as the first orderly plunged the syringe into his arm.

In a few minutes it was all over. Carter, with fits and twitches, finally succumbed to the sedative and the orderlies took their leave. Schultz went outside to talk with Langenscheidt while Hogan helped a shaken Newkirk to dress.

"Colonel…" Peter couldn't go on. He covered his face with his hand.

Hogan put an arm around his shoulders and drew him close for a moment. "I know Newkirk, I know."


	17. falling apart

**Emanations of Hate**

_**Chapter 17 **_

Upon their arrival back at camp, after settling Newkirk in and telling him to rest up, Hogan headed directly for Klink's office. The others - who had spent the last two days depressed and apprehensive - started to give Newkirk and enthusiastic welcome home, but it died down awkwardly when they got a good look at his face. Lebeau, with a quiet approach and a cup of tea, got him to talk about what had happened at the hospital.

Afterwards Lebeau placed a gentle hand on his back. "Try not to worry mon ami, Colonel Hogan will get the Kommandant to bring him home."

Kinch came to sit on the other side of him. "Louie's right. The Colonel will get him brought back here, and then we can make sure he's okay." Then he grinned, "But just think of all the cooking Louie's going to have to do to get you both back to normal!"

"Sacre chats! Of course!" Lebeau exclaimed; he hadn't even thought of that. All the men smiled as a rapturous Lebeau started planning all of the special meals he could make for everyone.

"You know Lebeau," Kinch broke in, "I hate to burst your bubble, but maybe Carter's not going to want all those fancy French dishes."

"Eh?" Lebeau asked, reluctantly coming out of his reverie. The confused master chef did not trust the look on Kinch's face - how could anyone not want one of his meals?

"They might be too rich for him. Besides, when you want to make someone feel better you're supposed to give them dishes that are familiar to them." Kinch slipped a sly wink to the others. "Maybe Carter will want more American things - you know, ham hocks, tuna casserole, meatloaf, macaroni and cheese."

Lebeau had caught his friend's wink and played along. In a horrified voice he cried, _"Meatloaf? Macaroni and cheese? Non, non, it is sacrilege!"_

"Or grits."

"Grits?" Lebeau didn't even know what those were, but with a name like that…

"Or fried bologna, or maybe some pork chops with apple sauce."

Lebeau thought he could live with the pork chops, but fried bologna? Who would even think of such a thing?

But now the others were playing along. "Chili!" someone yelled out.

Wilson jumped in with, "Barbecued ribs!"

"Hey Lebeau, how about some pizza?" suggested Tony Garlotti, whose father's recipe had won over Major Boncelli for them.

"No, cheeseburgers!" Baker laughed.

"Franks and beans!" someone else supplied.

"Corn dogs!" Olsen yelled. Lebeau nearly had a coronary; Carter had told him once what a corn dog was, and there was every possibility he might actually ask for one.

Someone else yelled, "Pig's feet!" and things started to get really out there.

"Corn fritters and possum stew."

"Beef jerky!"

"Fried catfish with a side of turnips!"

"No, let's have some roasted squirrel."

Kinch, looking at Lebeau's growing dismay, had to clench his jaw to keep from laughing.

"Cream of peanut soup!" This got more than a few laughs, but it was Private Busbee's triumphant cry of, "Pig Lickin' Cake!" that brought conversation to a screaming halt. (1)

For a second they all stared, incredulous, at the suddenly beet-red Busbee.

"_PIG LICKIN' CAKE?" _every man in the barracks asked.

"Well, it's just a name! There ain't no actual pigs involved," a sheepish Busbee started to explain, but it was no use. Before he could get any further, he was drowned out by the wave of hysterical laughter that washed over the entire room.

After a few minutes Kinch wiped a tear from his eye and turned to Lebeau, who made a heroic attempt to stop laughing and regain his revolted and superior expression. "Well Lebeau? Are you up to it?"

Lebeau turned up his nose and sniffed. "Americans!"

"Aww, come on Louie. Are you telling me Carter's getting better isn't worth a few corn dogs?" Kinch asked, with mock reproach.

Lebeau weakened a little.

"Possum stew? Roasted squirrels?" Kinch kept going, trying to control his smile. All the men knew that Lebeau wouldn't even consider not giving Carter anything he wanted if it would make the younger man feel better.

"_Well…" _he wavered.

"Or Pig Lickin' Cake?"

Lebeau let out a cry of despair, dropped his head and beat his fists theatrically against the table. Then, manfully, he drew himself up, and with all of the self-sacrifice of a man martyring himself for friendship, agreed.

"Louie Lebeau," Kinch chuckled, "you have a truly noble heart." He shook his head. "Pig lickin' cake," he said to himself.

The tall radioman took a discreet glance at the man beside him. Newkirk's smile was fading quickly as his thoughts once again turned back to the situation, but he did not look as tense and frazzled as he had when he came in.

Kinch was glad, not only for Newkirk, but for all of them. The gloom in the barracks for the last two days had been palpable. While Wilson and the Colonel had been at the hospital that first day, the others who had been with them that fateful night had been at loose ends. Exhausted, yet too traumatized to sleep, they had tried their best to deal with the questions of those who had not gone. Kinch knew that they had needed to talk it out, but he had asked them to keep the full story within the barracks for now, just in case Colonel Hogan wanted it kept quiet. Not a hard thing to do when they were stuck inside because of the weather, but he knew that he could trust the men to do so in any case. More than any other barracks, this one had to know how to keep things under wraps. With all of the comings and goings, not to mention the planning, even the men who didn't go out on missions still knew more about them then anyone else in camp.

Talking it out had helped to some degree, but it had not completely alleviated the men's trauma. Despite being as dead tired as they were, sleep had not come easy, and when it did it had brought devastating nightmares to more than a few. At one point that night Kinch had heard a snuffling Lebeau trying his best to comfort Foster, who could only get out, "I keep seeing the baby…" before he broke down weeping. This morning, after roll call, the men had been silent; no one wanted to discuss things anymore. The day was overcast so they stayed in the barracks, mostly dozing on and off, and spending their waking moments staring at the ceiling, thinking about horrors that most of them couldn't have dreamt of a mere forty-eight hours before.

As Kinch had anticipated, Hogan had ordered that no one else outside the barracks be told. Even Dodd had only been given the bare bones; he was a good man and they trusted him, but he hadn't been here that long. Who knew what he'd make of all this. Besides, the fewer who knew the better. They had gotten word this morning from Jelly Roll that a Doctor Schuler, with connections to the SS, had been reported missing. A full-out investigation by the SS and the Gestapo was being conducted, due to the Doctor's "vital work". Hogan knew his men were skilled at keeping secrets, but how could you keep such a gruesome story from making the rounds? From his own experience, and from that of the men in his barracks, Hogan quickly realized that with something like this, you needed to talk to someone. It didn't matter if you were battle hardened or not, you _needed_ to talk to someone, just to deal with your own horror. But at what price? Just _one word_, Hogan had warned, overheard by the wrong guard, might bring them more trouble than they were fit to handle. For the Germans, the idea of the POWs knowing such a horrifying Nazi secret might be cause enough to trigger mass executions.

"Why's Carter in such bad shape, do you think?" Foster's question drew Kinch back to the present. The Englishman had said it fairly casually, but all the conversation in the barracks stopped sharply.

"Are you asking me?" Newkirk demanded.

"No! I mean…I was just asking…wondering…" Foster tried to backtrack, confused as to why Newkirk had snapped at him so defensively.

"Wondering about what _exactly_?"

"Oh, for God's sake Newkirk, he's not blaming you," Olsen explained, "He wasn't even asking you! He was just talking out loud, wondering why Carter was so sick and banged up and you weren't."

Kinch moaned inwardly. _Matt, for the love of God, surely you could have found a better way to phrase that! _He knew Olsen hadn't meant it as an accusation, but he could see where Newkirk might take it that way.

But instead of flying off the handle, Newkirk simply looked stunned. "What do you mean 'banged up'? What are you talking about?"

"Newkirk, listen to me," Kinch said gently. "When we first brought the two of you back here we had to get you out of your wet clothes and into something dry. When we took off Carter's shirt, we found a bunch of fading bruises on his chest. We thought it must have been from when…well, from when whatever happened to the two of you happened. The only thing is, you _didn't_ have any, and we don't know why. Foster wasn't blaming you for anything."

"That's right," Foster asserted, "It's like Olsen said, I wasn't even asking you. I was just puzzled and," his voice trailed off a bit, "and sort of wondering out loud, you know, ah, how you do," he finished lamely.

"See? No one meant anything by it," Kinch assured him. Then, after shooting an uncertain glance at Lebeau, he asked Newkirk, "But maybe you could tell us something?"

Newkirk couldn't speak. Elbows on his knees, he rubbed at his face tiredly with his hands. _Bruises_, he thought. He remembered Carter being slammed against the door in the cellar before he could let him out, but he also remembered pounding his fists into Carter's ribs. _Bloody hell! This just gets better and better doesn't it? _ He shook his head without raising it, unable to look his friends in the eye. He wanted to tell them. He wanted to tell them that it was his fault, that they were fools for ever thinking they could depend on him, but he couldn't. Usually he had no trouble taking the blame, not if something was truly his fault. But this time, he couldn't find the courage. _Besides, if I tell them the whole story, then I'll have to tell them why I was so angry in the first place. And that's not my secret to tell, is it?_

Kinch didn't know what was wrong specifically, but it was easy to tell that Newkirk wasn't ready to talk about the whole experience yet. "I'm sorry Peter," he apologized. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot. We're just worried about the two of you. None of us can understand what you went through, but maybe if we knew a bit more, we might be able to help. But look, no one's forcing you, okay? If you want to talk about it, we'll listen, but if you don't want to talk about it, then you don't have to."

He watched as Newkirk took a deep breath and then nodded. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as the tension in the room eased a bit.

Of course, that didn't last. Once again it was Foster who unwittingly stuck his foot in it, but Kinch didn't have the heart to blame him. When he asked if Carter was going to be alright at that hospital, he was only asking what they all wanted to know.

Newkirk looked at him sharply, but it was Wilson who answered. "I've been asking around. There are a few men in camp who've been treated there. From what they say, the doctors and nurses weren't the warmest people going, (_or the most diligent when it came to treating prisoners of war, _he thought to himself), but none of them said that they were actively mistreated."

Newkirk leaped up. " How can you say that!" he shouted. "You weren't there when they were tying 'im down to that bed! You didn't hear 'im yelling, begging them to stop!"

"I'm sorry Newkirk, I know it must have been hard for you and the Colonel to watch them do that to Carter. And no, I wasn't there, so I can't say if their actions were necessary or not, but they might not have been completely unnecessary either. It would be dangerous for Carter to be that agitated, weak as he is. And as for the restraints, maybe that was for the best. You wouldn't want him to hurt himself, would you?" Wilson's voice was both reasonable and regretful, but that didn't stop Newkirk's rising anger.

"For the best? For the BEST? Andrew wouldn't 'ave _been_ agitated if those twisters 'ad known what they were about and treated 'im, instead of tying 'im down like some criminal!"

"Newkirk…" Kinch began.

"_NO! You lot shouldn't 'ave let 'im anywhere near those monsters! You saw what Schuler did! You saw, and yet you 'anded us right over to more of the same!" _Positively shaking with fury, he suddenly whipped his tin cup at the far wall. _"Bloody HELL!" _he screamed. Then, panting, his voice ragged with emotion, he asked,_" How could you do that? What were you thinking?" _ But then he stormed out of the barracks before the others could give him an answer.

An uncomfortable silence reigned. Without asking or needing to be told, Lebeau waited and then slipped out of the barracks a couple of minutes later and went after him. Wilson asked, "Do you think I should…I mean, he might need to be checked over…"

"No, leave it to Lebeau," Kinch advised.

"Do you think I should leave then? He probably won't want to see me when he comes back."

"I'm sorry Mike, but maybe, yeah."

"Alright." An embarrassed Wilson followed Lebeau out the door, avoiding the eyes of the others, who were ashamed to be kicking him out. Wilson was a fairly thick-skinned man - medics had to be - and this couldn't have been the first time a patient had blown up at him, but Kinch thought that he could sense the slightest bit of disappointment in Wilson. Then Kinch realized that Wilson might be more upset at losing the honorary membership in Barracks 2 he'd been given for the last couple of days. Wilson had been the only prisoner out that night who had not been from their barracks, and now he was being robbed of his chance of talking about it with the only other people in camp who would understand. In fact, because of the Colonel's orders, he wouldn't be able to speak of it at all.

"Damn," Kinch muttered under his breath.

* * *

Lebeau finally caught up with Newkirk outside the camp's rec hall. The Englishman was standing there, fists clenched at his sides, glowering.

"Newkirk mon ami, are you alright?"

Newkirk's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Come Newkirk, let's go inside," Lebeau said, and tugged gently on Newkirk's sleeve, leading him into the rec hall. The storms of the past few days had slackened to a sputtering drizzle, but it was still a cold, grey day - no weather to be out in. Strangely, there was no one inside, making the place feel abnormally quiet. Lebeau lead Newkirk to a chair and then pulled another one up beside him. Then, from one of his pockets, he pulled out a small flask and passed it to his friend.

"Here. To fight the chill."

Newkirk looked at him in surprise for a moment, then took a swig. "Thanks."

For awhile they passed the flask absently back and forth, not speaking, simply sitting in the semi-dark and listening to the occasional patter of rain on the tin roof. It was a restful, if sad, atmosphere. Slowly Newkirk began to open up.

"We've been 'ere a long time, 'aven't we mate."

"Oui. Too long."

"Do you ever think that you made the wrong decision? By staying 'ere, I mean."

Lebeau thought about this. "Sometimes I wonder if it was the best one. I wonder if I should have stayed in Paris, if I could have done more for France by being there. But who is to say? I do not think of my being here as _wrong_. Colonel Hogan gave me a chance to fight the Bosche and it could never be wrong to have accepted it."

"But don't you think it would've been better to 'ave stayed with your family?"

"Non. I do not have much of a family left."

"But didn't you say you had thirteen brothers and sisters?"

Lebeau laughed. "No, no. That is just something I made up for Schultzie! To explain getting all of the pieces of chicken from Alberta the pigeon!" He went on, "There is only my uncle now, and he is in the country. I worry about him because he is an old man, but there would have been little I could have done for him even if I had stayed. I could not have lived in the country with him, hiding while others fought for France. But also, he could not have moved to Paris to be with me. It would have only put him in more danger. And if I was fighting, or with the underground, I would not have been around much anyway."

Newkirk considered this. "I've been thinking about Mavis lately," he said.

"Your sister?"

Newkirk nodded. "You know, no one ever trusted me like she did. Not me mates - well, most of them were in the trade, if you catch my meaning. More than a little dodgy themselves. Even me Mum…" Newkirk's voice grew a bit shaky, "She usually thought I could be a decent bloke you know, but one time, just before I got taken up for something or other, she looked at me like…well, it's of no matter now." He took another drink from the flask. "But our Mavis was a different story. Not that she wouldn't tell me off from time to time, but still, she was always 'appy to see me. She'd smile and I'd remember 'ow she looked at me when she was a little girl. Like I was 'er big brother and no matter what anyone said about me, I'd always be there for her." _But I haven't been. Not for her, and not for anyone here._

"Do you think she would want you to risk your life escaping?"

"It'd 'ardly be much of a risk, would it? The guv'nor could probably get me a plane straight to London, if 'e 'ad a mind to."

"But how would she know that? Even once you got back, you couldn't speak to her of it."

"But I'd be there Louie. Doing some good," Newkirk argued.

"You think you are doing no good here?" Lebeau scoffed. "I understand about wanting to protect your sister, and I understand what it is to want to go home and fight there, and it is your decision and no one, especially not me, will think any less of you for it. But if your sister is anything like you, I believe she will be more than able of taking care of herself. What will be the best for her and for everyone is if the war ends as soon as possible. And you are doing more here to help that than you ever could at home. Just think mon ami, if you go home, you would only be re-assigned back into the RAF. You would be stuck on a base away from Mavis, and when you weren't there, you'd be on a plane flying over here, waiting to get shot down."

Newkirk stood up and faced Lebeau. "You don't understand! It's more complicated than that. I'm not doing any good 'ere! And I'm not doing any good by being away from there! It's like I've been split down the middle, and I'm not doing anyone any good because of it! At least if I was on a base in England, I could get to see Mavis occasionally. And I'd be close by if she needed me."

"Newkirk, is something wrong at - "

"And why should I stay?" Newkirk suddenly burst out, interrupting what he knew Lebeau's question was going to be. "I don't owe any of you anything!"

"No, of course you don't," Lebeau started, puzzled by his friend's sudden anger.

"You know what? I'm sick to death of all of you!" Newkirk lashed out, brimming with defensive resentment. "I'm sick of 'Ogan and all 'is plans! I'm sick of you and Kinch always backing 'im up! And most of all, I'm sick of that stupid bloody mug in the 'ospital!"

Lebeau gasped. "Newkirk! How can you say something like that?"

"Why not? It's true." He stormed around the room. "I'm sick of 'im! Why shouldn't I feel that way? Just because 'e's feeling a bit poorly? All of this is 'is fault to begin with!"

Lebeau jumped to his feet, absolutely furious. "How can you say that? He wasn't himself and you know it! How could he have stopped it? Tell me that!" he demanded, glaring at Newkirk.

"It was all Carter's fault!" Newkirk shouted; all the time his heart was screaming that no it wasn't, that it was his. "You don't know what it was like! Being like that, and no one 'elping you! You can't know what it was like to be trapped like that! To 'ave no bleedin' say in anything that 'appened to you! And it was Carter's fault!"

"No it wasn't Newkirk! It was Townsend's! No, none of us can know what it was like for you, but it was the same for him!"

"No it wasn't! 'E let Townsend do that to 'im! Why couldn't 'e 'ave fought'em off? 'E was supposed to be my friend and yet 'e did that to me!" Newkirk couldn't believe the things he was saying - if Carter was guilty of anything, it was of being the source of guilt that was tearing him up inside, but he couldn't stop himself. He was furious at everything, and especially at being made to feel this way.

"He is your friend, but maybe you are not his," Lebeau said, disgusted. "Maybe you _should_ go home; obviously we think more of you than you do of us." With that, he left Newkirk to stew on his own.

* * *

Eventually Kinch went down into the tunnel, unable to stand the strained quiet of the barracks any longer. He dreaded going to his radio - what if London called? They were in no fit state for even the simplest mission at the moment. But he couldn't avoid it forever. He had been down in the tunnels a good hour when Hogan pulled up a chair and quietly joined him.

"Anything?" Hogan asked, nodding towards the radio.

"Not a peep. Probably the weather. Who wants to escape or cause trouble on a day like today?"

"Thank God for small favours," Hogan said, rubbing his face tiredly.

"You should get some sleep sir."

"Mmmm." It was a murmur of agreement, but Hogan made no move to leave.

"Is the Kommandant going to let you go to the hospital to see him, sir?"

"No."

"No?"

"That's right, no!" Hogan snapped.

"Sorry sir."

"No, I'm sorry Kinch. It's just been a rotten day."

"Heck sir, it's been a rotten week."

Hogan smiled faintly. "How about a rotten month? A rotten year? A rotten war?"

Kinch snorted, "You'll get no argument from me. Look, I didn't mean to push. I guess I was just surprised that you couldn't convince the old Bald Eagle to let you leave camp. It's not like anyone's escaped lately. But it's unfair of us to expect you to always be able to twist him around your little finger."

"I will admit that my powers of persuasion seem to be a little off right now, but it's not Klink that I have to convince. I pestered him enough that I think he'd willingly be demoted to private just to get me out of camp for a few hours a day. It's the hospital. As far as they're concerned, they've already got one too many POWs there right now."

"I wish we could have taken them both to that German officer's hospital," Hogan went on. "That doctor who thought that I had Polaris Extremis probably would've been fascinated by their condition. Probably would have given them the best room and had nurses watching them around the clock." Hogan sighed. He started fiddling with a pencil and Kinch listened to him ramble without interrupting. "At the very least I wish I could have convinced them to keep Newkirk with Carter until they were both more themselves. But they told Klink that Newkirk was well enough to leave and that that made him Klink's responsibility. And so that shot that option all to hell."

"Never rains but it pours."

Hogan rolled his eyes. "Apt Kinch, very apt."

Kinch knew that his CO was preoccupied with something. "What's on your mind Colonel?"

Hogan hesitated, then casually asked out of the blue, "What's the name of that Private? The one who offered to set the charges for Dodd?"

"Fredericksen. Will Fredericksen."

"Know much about him?"

"Some. He was a miner before the war."

"We _have_ got him working in the tunnels right? Only there seemed to be a lot of forgers around that day."

Kinch laughed. "Yeah, he's one of our tunnel men."

"How long has he been here?"

"Two or three months I guess."

"Fitting in alright?"

"From all that I've heard. Seems like a decent man. Sensible, doesn't panic in a crisis, at least underground. Knows how to keep his mouth shut. Well, except for the language. Miners are like sailors if he's any example."

Hogan smiled. "How about brains?"

"I don't think he had much chance at an education. His family were farmers. He said he'd always miss different parts of the school year for planting and harvesting. Left young to work at a lumber camp and then became a miner because there was a bit more money in it. I don't know what he'd be like at undercover work. Still, I think he's pretty intelligent. Canny might be the word. We didn't have to tell him much about the operation once he saw the tunnels; he figured it out pretty quick."

"Really?"

"He'd arrived just before we'd had that cave-in while building that tunnel to the north of camp. You remember, when the Luftwaffe was thinking about expanding us and putting in some new barracks? Anyway, he must have been close when it happened and felt it - he knew what it was right away. He'd seen us talking to each other a lot, but you and Newkirk were out on assignment so he came to me and volunteered to help. I had to make a decision. It was risky I know, but it was obvious that we couldn't lie to him about the cave-in, so I thought 'either he's one of us or he's not - if he is he can help, if not, we'll have to get rid of him anyway.' Good thing he was, because a look or two round the rest of the tunnels and he had pretty near the whole story. After that, I put him on the tunnel committee and from what I hear, he's practically running it."

"Do you think that he could learn to build bombs?"

"I don't know sir. Maybe if Carter showed him how, he could manage the simpler ones. But I think his hand would give him trouble."

"His hand?"

"Fredericksen took a bullet in the arm when he was captured. Hit near the right wrist and went along up to the elbow. It hasn't impaired him to the point where you'd really notice anything wrong, but it's caused him to lose enough movement and motor control in his hand that any delicate work like wiring might be out of the question."

"Damn."

"What's this all about sir?"

"I was thinking of moving him up in the operation."

"You mean having him fill in for Carter while he's in the hospital? Is there something you're not telling us sir?"

"No Kinch, you know all that I know. The problem is that none of us knows anything."

"What do the doctors say?"

"Well, nothing to _me_," Hogan complained. "but they've told _Klink_ that he should be fine." Frustrated, he suddenly tossed the pencil he'd been fiddling with across the room.

"But he's going to be there awhile?"

"No, they said he should be back by the end of the week. They'll probably let him go before they should, but I'm not going to argue. He'll be better off with us."

They sat quietly for a moment, each thinking their own thoughts. Then Kinch asked, "Did you hear about Newkirk's blow-up?"

"Yeah. I'll talk to him, but look, tell the guys to go easy on him. He's still tense, and too run down. They can't expect him to be himself."

"I guess Carter will be about the same when he comes back."

"Probably. We'll have to give them some slack for awhile, but I think they'll both be fine eventually." But from Hogan's tone, Kinch thought that he wasn't so sure about that.

"So what's all this about then, sir?" Kinch asked, though he tried to keep it light. "All these questions about Fredericksen? Making sure Carter has a back-up that doesn't leave camp with him?"

Hogan paused and regarded Kinch closely, trying to decide on something.

"Yeah, something like that." Kinch waited for him to elaborate, but Hogan said nothing. After a few moments he got up and left.

* * *

In the hospital, the object of their discussion was just beginning to sort out where he was. His eardrums throbbed painfully and he stirred in his sleep, making a faint fretful sound. His thoughts and memories were jumbled in a knot, just out of reach at the back of his skull. It hurt to think about them, and instinct told him that he didn't want to. On a conscious level, if he could have comprehended a question, and someone had asked him what he felt, he couldn't have answered beyond saying that he felt some time had passed.

Unconsciously, he clenched his eyes tightly shut, unwilling to awaken. Distorted and abstract images followed - vague memories of being forced to watch something terrible, of being completely helpless to stop it. His breathing grew rapid and choppy in his growing agitation, but he was alone and so no one noticed. In his nightmare, he was tied down. He could see - _himself? someone else?_ - straining at his bonds and weeping with despair. Trying futilely to break free and save…_who? From what? _

Slowly he swam his way back to consciousness. Weak and groggy, he opened his eyes and his previous panic faded a little as he was confronted with this new situation. In a voice slurred with fatigue, he called out, hoping someone was there, but the guard outside didn't hear him. He lowered his head back down the inch or so he'd been able to lift it, and tried to stem his rising panic. Chilled and nauseous, he felt terrible, but there didn't seem to be anyone there trying to hurt him.

However, despite his efforts to keep calm, he grew more and more worried - the fear brought on by his nightmare returning. _There should be _someone _here. Where are the guys? Are they okay? Why's everything so bright?_

"Hel..Hello?" he called again, then coughed - his throat was raw. Outside, the ever focused Sergeant Groener was concentrating on his duty.

"_When you're in a strange situation, try to look around and take stock of things before you open your mouth,"_ Colonel Hogan had once told him. Carter tried to take this advice now. What did he know? He couldn't remember being in any room in camp where the light was so glaring, so he guessed that he wasn't there for some reason. He knew that he felt absolutely awful; even his skin felt weird - sort of goosebumpy, and yet almost like he could feel the pressure of the air weighing down on him. He found that he was lying down and so he tried to sit up.

He couldn't. Turning his head, he found restraints binding his wrists and ankles to the bed frame. Puzzled, and becoming more frightened by the minute, he pulled at them uselessly. Glancing around, he saw that he was alone and in a hospital room.

Newkirk's words came back to him. _"The Colonel thinks you've cracked."_

Had the Colonel put him here because he was crazy? Is that what had happened?

_No! The Colonel wouldn't do that to me! _his mind insisted.

_But…but what if I am crazy? What if I did something really bad? _His stomach twisted sharply at that thought. Something about that was close; he could almost remember something. He had done something, but what? He began to shiver. Praying desperately, he suddenly knew that more than anything else in the world, he did not want the answer to that.

Still, in life, and especially in war, things that we don't want to happen, happen all the time, despite our best wishes and intentions. As he lay there, everything that had been dancing around in his unconsciousness and driving his nightmares, came flooding back to him. The tears gushed from his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Left breathless and gasping with pain at the things he had seen and done, he could do nothing else but beg pleadingly to Heaven to make it stop.

* * *

The rain went away, and for the next few days the men of Stalag 13 were treated to some of the best fall weather they had ever had. The air was fresh, the skies sunny and clear, and the days were clean and new. All the best childhood memories of county fairs, rugby games and playing stickball in the street until the long hours of the evening, came back to them with joy and sadness. Everyone ached to escape, even if only for a day or two, so they could run like free men; because the whole world should be at your feet on days like those.

So naturally the men were busy. Escaping prisoners from the other Stalags poured in; many of them less prepared than they should have been because they had been unable to wait. Run ragged, the only thing Hogan and his men could be grateful for was that nothing more complicated had come up. Packed to the rafters and missing two key players, they could only be thankful that the processing of prisoners was a comparatively easy job.

Newkirk, who was having trouble sleeping and often woke the barracks with his nightmares, was still considered to be on "sick leave". An uneasy tension existed between him and his barrack mates. After their argument, Lebeau had immediately regretted his words - the Frenchman remembering that Newkirk had blown up in the first place because he had been upset over Carter's treatment at the hospital, making it unlikely that he truly blamed Carter - and so he had tried to apologize. Newkirk had pushed him away and told him to "Sod off!" But he had also avoided looking at Lebeau when he said it, as if he were ashamed. Lebeau remembered his friend's worry over his sister, and - wondering if there was a specific reason for it - had held his temper and kept trying to get Newkirk to talk to him. But the Englishman had rebuffed him at every turn. Irritable, he spoke to no one unless he had to, and usually snapped at them when he did. The others tried their best to be understanding, but between the extra work and nightmares of their own, no one was getting any sleep and patience was wearing thin.

The team was falling apart.

* * *

(1) Seriously, I didn't make this up. I found 'Pig Lickin' Cake' (spelled just that way) in a cookbook my mother brought back from a vacation in Georgia about twenty-five years ago. 


	18. fumbling and avoidance

**Emanations of Hate**

**_Chapter 18_**

Wilson's calm was annoying Hogan. It wasn't Wilson's fault he supposed; a medic would just naturally be more used to something like this. As they sat in the back of the rattling truck he reflected that most of his irritation was coming from the realization that he _wasn't_ calm. Why shouldn't he be calm? It was almost over - they were bringing Carter home today.

He suddenly noticed that he was tapping his fingers anxiously on his knee, and forced himself to stop. _For Pete's sake, am I actually nervous? No, of course not. That would be foolish. _Still, he was relieved to see that Wilson had been looking out the back of the truck at the scenery.

But he should have known the medic was sharper than that. "Something wrong sir?" Wilson asked.

"No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure sir? You haven't said much."

"I'm fine Sergeant."

Wilson let it go, but his sympathetic expression suggested that he had a good idea of what was going on, that he had seen it before.

Part of it, Hogan knew, was simply the trepidation that everyone felt the first time they were allowed to see an injured friend - _how bad is it? Will I be shocked? I don't want them to see it if I am. _ It was a different situation here; he had seen Carter after he was 'injured', so that wasn't a surprise, but now it was the man's emotional and mental state that was in question. And that was a subject that Hogan was highly uncomfortable with, both personally and because of his position of command. There were many good reasons why a commander shouldn't grow overly close to his men, and didn't recent events already point to him having done just that?

On the other hand, if a man was having problems that would take his mind off of his job, making him less efficient and possibly even a danger to himself and others, then wasn't it a commander's _duty _to step in? To try to help if he could?

_If I can. And that's the question, isn't it? I'm not a psychiatrist. And this? This is just plain weird! But if I can't help him, then what else can I do but take him off the team? And where am I going to find another munitions man who can impersonate Adolf Hitler himself?_

God, how he hated having to think of his men that way - as if they were productive tools rather than people. But that was his job, wasn't it? He had to go in there and face a man that he had lived with for more than a year and evaluate him as to whether or not he was still fit for duty. He sighed and caught Wilson turning to look at him. As the truck pulled up to the hospital, Hogan took a deep breath and steeled himself for the job ahead.

* * *

Lying on his bed, Carter didn't move. He looked terrible and Hogan was surprised by the jolt that gave him. Only the bloodshot eyes slowly tracking them as they came in gave them any indication that Carter even knew they were there. Dull and sunken, they went back to staring despondently at the ceiling when Hogan sat down.

"Andrew? Can you hear me?"

There was no answer.

"How are you feeling?" Hogan asked gently.

Carter's brow furrowed. In the end he couldn't think of an adequate answer and so he said nothing.

"That's okay, you don't have to answer that now. Did they tell you that Wilson and I were coming to get you?" Hogan was puzzled at the confused look Carter gave him.

"I…I don't understand," Carter whispered. It was possibly the quietest thing Hogan had ever heard him say.

"Wilson and I are here to take you home, but look, first I'd like Wilson to give you a quick once-over just to make sure you're well enough to come back, okay?" It was more for Hogan's peace of mind than anything; unless Wilson said Carter was dying, the hospital had no plans on letting him stay.

Carter looked at each of them. He didn't seem to understand what was happening, but after a few moments he gave a shaky nod.

"Don't worry Carter, I just want to have a look at you," Wilson said in his best 'trusted doctor' tone. "I'm just going to take your shirt off here, but maybe you'd like the Colonel to step outside first?"

Both of them regarded Carter intently and he began to fidget under their gaze. Though clearly reluctant, he finally nodded and they took that as a good sign. It meant that he not only trusted Wilson enough to let the medic examine him, but also that he was well enough to want a bit of dignity. Hogan also felt a little relieved on a personal level as he stepped out into the hall to wait with Schultz and Bergman.

After a few minutes, Wilson came out to report to Hogan, who pulled him away from the guards so that they could talk privately.

"How is he?"

"Pulse is a little on the weak side, but stable. His bruises are mostly gone."

"Is he alright to come back with us?"

"I believe so," Wilson answered, but his voice was less than confident.

"What is it?"

"His answers to my questions were a little sluggish and vague. He's nearly unresponsive - and that worries me. Though admittedly, that could simply be the after effects of being sedated so often."

Hogan felt his back go up. "How often?" he growled.

"I took a quick look at his chart. I think they've been sedating him pretty much since he woke up. Maybe not enough to knock him right out, but certainly enough to keep him docile."

"Have they done anything else to him?" Hogan demanded.

"I don't think so. He's clean and he doesn't have any bedsores so I think they've been looking after him. He does have marks on his wrists and ankles from the restraints, but they don't appear to be too bad." The expression on Hogan's face told the medic that _any_ marks were bad marks.

"Fabulous." Hogan was being sarcastic, but he heard more defeat in his voice than he liked, and the look Wilson gave him said that the medic had caught it as well. "Anything else?"

"He's complaining about being cold." In the end Carter hadn't let Wilson take off his pyjama shirt; Wilson had had to work around it, rolling up the sleeves and lifting up the back to do his examination. Afterwards Carter had refused even to take them off in order to get into the uniform that they had brought him. Figuring, _What the hell, we can send them back to the hospital later, _Wilson had helped Carter put his flight suit on overtop of them, and was reminded of once trying to pull a snowsuit on his sleepy five-year-old nephew.

"Cold? Why would he be cold?"

"Different physical ailments like low blood pressure could cause his temperature to be low, but the thing is, he isn't cold. I took his temperature. It's pretty normal. It could be something I'm not seeing, or it could be psychosomatic, or…"

"Or what Sergeant?"

"Well, Lebeau was telling me yesterday about him and Kinch growing cold around Carter and Newkirk while on the work detail at Herr Bauer's farm," Wilson whispered. Schultz and Bergman were looking over at them now, clearly curious. "I mean, I'm not a doctor sir, but I can't think that there's any doctor who'll to be able to tell you what the effects of…well, what the effects of what Carter and Newkirk went through, are going to be."

Hogan sighed wearily. "You still think he should come back with us?"

"To be honest sir, I don't think I can give the hospital any reason that's good enough for them to let him to stay. And like I said, I doubt there's any doctor who'd know what to do for him in any case. At least with us, he'll be in familiar surroundings, and unless his physical symptoms take a drastic downturn, I should be able to handle it." Wilson smiled, "Besides, Lebeau's cooking has got to be better for him than the slop he's probably been getting here."

Hogan grinned a little at this. He believed Lebeau was more excited than anyone at the thought of Carter returning to camp. Planning meals and gathering ingredients had given the Frenchman something constructive to do for his friend; everyone else could only worry.

* * *

Hogan had wanted Carter to return to the barracks straight away, feeling that the more quickly he could adjust to his normal routine, the better for him and everyone else. But as he and Wilson had walked Carter out of the hospital, each with a hand ready to shoot out and grab him in case he stumbled, Hogan had seen how weak and shaky Carter still was. He also hadn't missed the way Carter had blinked and shrunk back from the sunlight, or the way he had flinched at Hogan's touch when he had helped him into the back of the truck. And, after watching Carter tense at every noise on the ride home, and yet still somehow manage to fall into an exhausted sleep, he reluctantly concluded that Carter was in no fit state to be in a crowded barracks. Upon returning to camp, he agreed to let Wilson settle Carter in the infirmary.

All the men from Barracks 2, as well as more than a few others, were waiting outside, anxiously watching the gates. Even Lebeau was starting to feel apprehensive. They wondered what Carter would be like and they wondered what they would say to him. When the truck pulled in, nearly all of them surged forward, eager to welcome their friend home, but also eager to simply get the moment over with. Only Newkirk hung back. However, they were surprised when Hogan got out first and waved them away - worried that that his demolitions man might be overwhelmed by the greeting party. He came to talk to them as Wilson lead Carter off.

"Is he alright Colonel?" Lebeau asked, staring at the forlorn figure.

"He's just exhausted. Wilson wants to keep him in the infirmary a few days though. It'll be easier for him to rest where it's quiet." It was a good effort, but both Kinch and Lebeau heard the slightly distracted thread running through their CO's voice, and noticed the quick glance he shot in that direction.

"Louie, do me a favour? Give them a couple of minutes and then take some soup or something warm over to Andrew. But nothing too heavy."

"It's like I told you Lebeau - get out your recipe for macaroni and cheese," Kinch said, hoping to break the mood. He was rewarded with a small round of chuckles from the others, which surprised Hogan.

"Macaroni and cheese? Am I missing something?"

"I'll explain it to you later sir," Kinch told him.

* * *

In the end, it was chicken soup and toast that Lebeau brought over, getting past Wilson by arguing that, even for such a simple meal, a good chef needed a review.

Wilson frowned. "Look, go easy, alright?" he said, blocking Lebeau's way for a moment.

Lebeau was slightly offended by this. "Of course," he said with a sharp look.

"I mean, just don't expect too much yet, okay?" Wilson tried to explain.

Lebeau's look softened as he understood what Wilson had been trying to say. "Non, of course not. I will just make sure he eats this and then I will go."

Still, despite the medic's warning, Lebeau was disturbed by Carter's appearance. His normally cheerful and animated friend looked drawn and washed out, giving Lebeau a sad-eyed, perplexed look as he approached.

"Colonel Hogan asked me to bring you something to eat."

"I'm not real hungry right now," Carter answered.

"The Colonel told me to insist. He said to tell you that it is an order." Lebeau reflected on this ruefully _- imagine someone having to be ordered to eat my food!_

Carter tried, though Lebeau thought that it was mostly to be polite. The younger man was so bone-tired that even sitting up and raising his head to eat seemed to be too much for him. Lebeau watched, a little alarmed, as Carter suddenly clenched his jaw to keep from sobbing and put a hand over his eyes. However, unknown to Lebeau, a string of terrifying thoughts were running through his mind_…was it real…the other camps…it's still happening…why didn't they tell me…it can't be real…I must be crazy…do they know…is it true?_

Lebeau watched Carter take a couple of deep breaths, as he struggled to get himself under control. The American's hand shook as he pulled it away from his face, and the shudder that went through him when he glanced at the half-empty bowl made Lebeau worry that he was about to be sick.

"Carter? Carter, are you alright? Do you want me to get Wilson?" The medic had stepped outside so that they could have some privacy, but Lebeau knew that he wouldn't have gone far.

"No!" Carter shouted. Then he took another deep breath. "No," he repeated more quietly. "It's okay, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

Carter nodded and settled back. For awhile they just sat there in silence, Carter listlessly turning his spoon around in the bowl. When he seemed more himself, Lebeau attempted to get him to finish his meal. He knew that it was undoubtedly a lost cause, but half a bowl of soup and two bites out of a piece of toast weren't going to be enough for Wilson and the Colonel.

"Please Carter, try to eat a little more. What will people think of my cooking when they see that one of my friends is so thin?" he tried to joke.

Carter gave him a wan smile, but his face was still shadowed. "You could always show'em Schultzie," he finally answered.

Lebeau snorted. "Schultzie? Why would I take Schultzie to Paris?"

He didn't understand the look that Carter gave him. "You'd still take me to Paris?"

"Bien sur! Why wouldn't I?" (1)

Carter stared at him out of the corner of his eye. "And you'd _really_ introduce me to all of your friends?"

Later, Lebeau would feel very foolish for not realizing that perhaps this had been Carter's way of asking if him if he blamed him for what had happened, but at that moment the Frenchman was baffled.

"Mon dieu, what a question! I expect all of you to come visit me after the war. You'll come and eat at my restaurant and I'll show you all of the sights of the most beautiful city in the world - the blondes, the brunettes, the redheads - and then, once we've done that, we can go and see the Eiffel Tower."

Carter didn't laugh, but only peered at him more closely. Lebeau seemed to be sincere, but instead of reassuring Carter, this only confused him, causing a worried frown to crease his face. No matter which way he looked at it, he could not escape the deep-rooted feelings of shame and self-hatred that welled up within him. If the things he remembered hadn't actually happened then he must have gone crazy, just like Newkirk had said, and not only was he crazy, but he had be crazy in a very sick and twisted way to have such awful thoughts and hallucinations. And if he wasn't crazy, if those things had actually happened…

Suddenly he wanted to yell at Lebeau. How on Earth could the Frenchman still call him his friend? How could he not be ashamed to know him? Whether or not Schuler was real, or just part of his deranged imagination, what did that say about him? A panicked sob clutched at his chest and he gasped sharply.

"Carter, what is it?" asked a worried Lebeau.

"I…I just…I don't…" Carter tried, but then shook his head, unable to speak. There were so many things he wanted to know, but he couldn't think of the words to ask them.

It was hard for the warm-hearted Frenchman to see his friend so distressed. "Try not to think about things right now, mon ami. Lay down and get some rest," he advised.

"And that'll fix everything?" Carter asked sadly, not believing it, even as he did what Lebeau told him.

"No," Lebeau answered honestly, "but things are usually a little easier to face if you can gather as much strength as you can."

After a moment Carter nodded and closed his eyes. In hopes of taking his friend's mind off of his troubles, Lebeau sat beside him and quietly described all of the things that he would take Carter and the others to see in Paris after the war. Carter drifted off while Lebeau was describing a café near the Seine run by three beautiful sisters and Lebeau was able to leave him sleeping more peacefully than he had in weeks.

* * *

Carter had several visitors over the next few days. Kinch would come with Lebeau when he brought Carter his breakfast each morning, and the two men always found him lying down, yet fully dressed, looking less like a patient and more like a man awaiting his execution. These visits were strained and awkward, with no one speaking much. Lebeau would always sigh inwardly at the effort Carter would make to eat his porridge or his potato pancakes; the younger man still had no appetite and it was obvious that he was only eating so as not to worry them. Baker would think the same thing later on, after persuading Carter to play a game of checkers with him. But it was easier to do that than to deal with a silent Carter, a painfully uncomfortable Foster and Olsen's forced cheerfulness.

Still no one talked of what had happened. It was easy to see - or at least easy to tell themselves - that Carter wasn't ready. However, Wilson noticed that between visitors, Carter tended to sit on the edge of the bed and stare out at the compound. Motionless and despondent, it was if he was waiting for something. _Is there something out there that's bothering him? _Wilson wondered. Outside, most of the prisoners went on with their normal, everyday activities - a few were playing volleyball at the moment - but even with spending most of his time in the infirmary with his patient, Wilson could sense that they were picking up on the air of tension that radiated from Barracks 2. It was as he stood there behind the oblivious Carter, seeing Sergeant Schultz break up the game and call the men to attention for evening roll call, that the answer came to him.

_Mike, you idiot! _He cursed himself, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. He had been watching Carter for nearly three days now and hadn't even noticed that, despite all the visitors that had come and gone, not one of them had been Peter Newkirk. He also realized that the Colonel had never come when Carter was awake. It was suddenly easy to figure out that Carter must be waiting to talk to one or both of them. Who else's reactions to what had happened would be the most worrying to him? The medic quickly strode out the door after instructing Carter to stay put. _To hell with the curfew, I'm getting them over here now. Carter has no hopes of getting better if he doesn't resolve this._

Fifteen minutes later, a speechless Hogan - astounded by the quick, efficient and completely ticked off way in which his normally stoic medic had told off both him and several large guards with guns - was lead into the infirmary to confront his equally surprised demolitions man.

"You two talk! I'm going to look for the other one," Wilson ordered and then stormed out just as abruptly as he had come in. Schultz, who had followed him and Hogan in, futilely protesting that everyone was supposed to be in their own barracks, stood there a moment puzzling, "Other one? What other one?" Then he realized something and started to whine, "_Colonel Hogggan! _What other one? And why does Sergeant Wilson have to look for him? Isn't he in his barracks?"

"I don't know Schultz. Maybe you should ask Wilson."

Schultz looked around, saw that the medic was long gone and quickly ran out the door. Hogan and Carter listened to him begging Wilson to stop. Then Hogan reluctantly turned to face Carter.

Despite the fact that Carter had been waiting for three days to get this moment over with, the sudden appearance of his commanding officer - not to mention the dashing in and out of angry medics and confused guards - had startled him. Now that the moment was here, he was too flustered to speak. Hogan saw Carter turn away and begin fidgeting, clearly hoping that he would be the one to start.

"So Carter, uh, how are you feeling?" Hogan began, mentally wincing at how uncomfortable he sounded.

Carter suddenly found more of interest in his shoes. "Fine, I guess, sir."

"Good, that's good," he responded. "I suppose the guys have been stopping by pretty regularly?"

"Yes sir." _Great, if he's this formal, he must really be uncomfortable_, Hogan thought.

"Look Carter, I've been pretty busy lately; we've had a lot of escapees coming through and…" he started to explain.

"Yes sir, I know. Kinch and Lebeau told me."

_Made excuses you mean. _"I did stop in a couple of times, but - "

"I know sir. Wilson said. It's alright, I understand."

Hogan sighed and thought, _I'm not entirely sure that you do, but I think we've both got bigger things on our minds right now. _Seeing the way Carter avoided his eyes told Hogan that they had better stop dancing around and get down to a few of them. He took a deep breath.

"Andrew, I need to ask you a question."

Carter looked at him.

"Did they treat you alright at the hospital?" The question actually surprised the both of them. Hoping to get to the heart of things, Hogan had dived in before realizing that he had no idea of what to ask first.

Still looking at his shoes, Carter's brow furrowed and Hogan noticed that one of his hands began to twist nervously at his blanket. He frowned when the younger man didn't answer.

"Carter, I asked you a question," he said quietly, but firmly.

"I guess so sir," Carter replied eventually. "I mean, I don't remember a whole lot of it." Hogan didn't know it, but this question had set off a cold, squirmy feeling in his stomach. The hospital had positively terrified him. Sedated to the point of being ill, trapped between being asleep and awake, he had been plagued by nightmares that he couldn't bring himself to admit to his CO.

"What do you remember?" Hogan prodded gently.

Carter thought about it for a moment. "Well, I remember being worried about saying anything."

"Saying anything?"

"You know, about things here at camp. About the operation. I mean, I was pretty confused, you know? I was scared I'd wake up and there'd be Hochstetter saying he'd captured you all - or worse - cause of something I'd said when I didn't even know it."

Hogan put his hand on Carter's shoulder. "Don't worry about it Andrew. Hochstetter would have been here by now if you had said anything. I know it must have been scary at the time, but you didn't say anything, so try and do your best to forget about it." He didn't tell the troubled young man that that thought had occurred to him as well. Working with Kinch, he had come up with a hasty plan to get all the prisoners out as quickly as possible, or to at least give them a chance to defend themselves, in the event that Carter let something slip in his delirium; but both men had known that the plan had had a slim chance of succeeding at best, and that Carter himself would have been caught in the hands of the Gestapo with almost no hope of rescue. "What else do you remember?" he went on.

"Not a whole lot more sir," Carter lied. He remembered being miserably confused as to why he was there. He remembered feeling frighteningly alone; sick at the thought that he'd gone insane, and that the others had left him there, locked up in some German hospital without even bothering to get him home for treatment. In his more lucid moments, he had realized that that was ridiculous - they wouldn't have left him in a German hospital if they thought he was sick! They just wouldn't have! Besides, that would have put them in the very danger of exposure that he had been so worried about. But other times, when he was so muddled in his thoughts and nauseous from the sedatives, unable to move his arms and legs, he had been heartbroken, sure that he had done something to cause the others to desert him.

He also remembered a deeper fear. As Hogan watched, Carter began unconsciously rubbing his left wrist with his right hand, right where the marks from the restraints could still be seen. Carter remembered doctors coming towards him, usually with needles. Even in his drug-induced haze, terrifying memories of the things Schuler had done to him - _Townsend? _- had come through to him. Frantic to get free, he had pulled as best as he could at the restraints. He had tried to scream, but it had always come out sounding mushy and slurred, leaving him with only the power to weep with fear and frustration and all the horrors of being completely defenceless.

Lost in his memories, and confused as to whether they were actually his or Townsend's, Carter started to shiver. _Does Townsend even exist? Am I crazy? Is this what crazy people do? Dream up sick nightmares like this? _Everything was suddenly right there in front of him, like it was all happening again. He only came out of it when he felt the Colonel shaking him by his shoulder. Hogan had been watching with growing alarm at the way his munitions man had been withdrawing into himself.

"Carter? Listen to me Carter," he ordered. Carter turned to look at him. "Good. Now, I need you to try and pull yourself together. It's obvious something is bothering you and I think that you need to tell me exactly what it is."

"Sir, why are you asking me about the hospital? Are you going to send me back there? Is that why you want to know about it?" Carter asked all in a rush. "Cause I don't want to go back! No sir!"

"Carter, for God's sake, calm down! What are you talking about?"

_Oh great, as if going all to pieces is gonna make the Colonel think you're _less _crazy! _He nearly could have cried. Instead, after a deep, shuddery breath, he said, "Please Colonel, I just really, really, don't want to go back to that hospital."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed," Hogan said dryly, hoping to break the tension a little, but it backfired and Carter stared at him, shocked and hurt. _Smooth Rob, real smooth, I'm sure he's in a perfect state for being teased._ "I'm sorry Carter, I didn't mean to make fun of you. Honestly, I give you my word, I'm not going to send you back to that hospital."

"What about another hospital?" Carter asked anxiously, worrying that maybe the only reason they had gotten him out of that hospital was because they thought he was being mistreated, and _not_ because they thought he was sane.

"Of course not."

Carter gave a relieved sigh. _At least the Colonel doesn't think I'm crazy now!_

"Well, unless of course you get sick again," Hogan continued.

"But - " _Sick again? What does he mean - does he mean crazy again?_

"Don't worry about it now Carter. You're going to be fine."

"Colonel?" Kinch's sudden appearance made Carter nearly jump out of his skin. "I'm sorry Andrew, I didn't mean to startle you," the radio man apologized. "Colonel, you said for me to tell you when it was that time."

"Oh right, thanks Kinch. I'll be there in a minute," Hogan said. Kinch nodded and left them alone again. Hogan got up; he knew that he and Carter needed to talk more, but unfortunately Wilson had brought him here on a night when he had something planned. He wondered where Wilson had got to. He'd been hoping the medic would have brought Newkirk over here by now - he really didn't want to leave Carter on his own.

But time was a factor. "I'm sorry Carter, I have to go. I've got to meet with a member of the underground to coordinate a mission, and my contact can only get away for a short time."

"But sir, I gotta ask - "

"We'll talk again tomorrow morning, I promise. But before I go I want to ask you something." Hogan hesitated; for three days he had avoided Carter mainly because he had been trying to come to a decision. After their talk about Fredericksen, Kinch had figured it out and had argued against it, urging him to at least talk about it with Carter. Hogan knew though, that - either way - he couldn't let what Carter wanted be the deciding factor. He had to think of the operation and its mission first, and the team as a whole second. And then there were the other prisoners, and the risk to them if the operation was exposed. What his men wanted or didn't want as individuals had to come last.

The problem was, that he hadn't been sure if he could remain objective if he knew how Carter felt. But after Wilson had dragged him over here, he realized that a decision had to be made, and that maybe Carter's wishes could at least tip the balance one way or another. So he had to ask.

"Carter, do you want to go home?"

"Whaddya mean? Go back to the barracks?" Carter asked, darting a quick look in that direction. He really did want to leave the infirmary - he hated being a patient - but thinking about being around the others again made him nervous. They were all looking at him weird now; they tried not to, but they were.

"No Andrew, I mean your real home, back in the States."

Carter, still worrying about what his friends were thinking, missed the point. "Sure," he said, a little puzzled. "Don't you?"

"Well, I was planning on waiting until the war was over."

Carter's eyes went wide. "You mean you want to send me home right now? But you said - "

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Sir," Kinch hissed from outside, "it's clear."

"Look Carter, we'll talk tomorrow." He patted Carter on the shoulder. "You just think about it, alright?"

"But - " Carter protested to empty air; Hogan was already making his way out the door.

_But you said that I was better now! You said that I was fine! Why are you sending me home if I'm fine? Why won't anyone tell me what happened?_

_I can't take this anymore!_

_

* * *

_

This time, it was a terrible shock to Dietrich Heidemann to see who the SS man pounding at his door really was. His heart in his throat, he wished for a brief, fleeting moment that it actually was one of Hitler's Stormtroopers standing out there in the dark.

He opened the door but said nothing. The man in front of him lifted an eyebrow in cold amusement.

"Are you not going to invite me in then, George?"

(1) "Of course!"


	19. sorting things out

**Emanations of Hate**

**_Chapter 19_**

"George, having existed in both states, I can tell you that one of the main differences between the living and the dead is that living people tend to _breathe_." Heidemann remained paralysed in the doorway and so his visitor resigned himself to not receiving an invitation to enter, and simply pushed his way past his host and strode casually into Heidemann's parlour. The horrified German watched as his visitor pulled off his gloves with the same precision as before and then poured himself a drink.

If the man's back hadn't been towards him, he might have also seen the way his visitor's hand shook as it brought the glass up to his lips.

"I'm sorry to drop by so late George. I suppose it's reasonable to assume that you weren't expecting me."

"_Gerald?" _the older man finally blurted out. "Gerald, how in God's name can you possibly be here?" he shouted. "I thought…Good heavens man! I saw you, well…_disperse."_

To his amazement, he received no answer from the other man. He saw Townsend's head drop and heard a strangled choke. The shot glass fell weakly from his hand, its contents spilling out all over the floor. Heidemann saw Townsend's back begin to quiver, and then his whole body was shaking uncontrollably as he turned to face him.

"It was real? _Really_ real?" he whispered.

"_Sergeant Carter?"_

But Carter couldn't answer. Suddenly he doubled over. Racing past Heidemann, he made a frantic dash into the kitchen. Running after him, the German was just in time to helplessly watch the young man vomit into his sink.

"All those kids…" Carter sobbed in hitching gasps, "All those kids…" His body heaved violently and he threw up again, tears streaming down his face.

Heidemann stood by him, patting him gently on the back until he could feel him calm down a little. Carter turned to him, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"It's alright," Heidemann reassured him and wet a washcloth, passing it to Carter so that he could clean himself off.

"I didn't want it to be real. Honestly I didn't," Carter explained plaintively, as he fumbled with the washcloth.

"Of course you didn't. Here let me get that," Heidemann said. Carter, still shaking rather badly, had dropped the cloth.

"Not even if it meant I was crazy," Carter continued. "But I guess I got thinking about it so much that…" his voice shuddered and Heidemann looked up quickly, worried that he was about to be sick again.

"I don't understand. Why did you - " He had been about to say, _Why did you pretend to be Gerald Townsend? _ But then he thought that maybe Carter hadn't been entirely pretending. His impersonation had been positively eerie, and the implications of that were rather frightening. Perhaps, unbeknownst to the Sergeant, there was still something of his old friend left in the young man. But that was hardly something to suggest in front of Carter; the man's emotions were already in tatters. So, walking him back into the parlour, he simply asked, "Why are you here Sergeant?"

"I had to know. You see, the more and more I got thinking about it, the more I thought there had to be something wrong with me. It kept going around and around in my head till I couldn't sleep or eat or anything. I couldn't believe it had really happened. I mean who could do something like that? Who could do that to little kids?"

Heidemann guided him to a chair. "I'm afraid I still don't quite understand. You had to know what exactly?"

"I had to know what happened. I had to know if Townsend," his voice broke, "If Townsend and Schuler were real."

"My God! You didn't know? But why didn't you ask the others about it?"

The words all rushed out, "Cause I didn't want them to think I was any more crazy than they already did! I woke up in the hospital and they had me tied to a bed and I was all confused and didn't remember how I'd gotten there and then I started remembering all this crazy stuff and everybody looks at me funny and…"

_And Newkirk said the Colonel thought I was crazy._

"And it just seemed to make sense, you see. All this other stuff, it was too awful to believe! And so I thought I must've done something and guys thought I'd gone nuts or I was sick and they put me in the hospital, and so I thought that if I talked about all these things I was remembering, then they'd think that I was _really_ crazy and they'd make me go back and I'd never get out of there. And they must think something's wrong with me cause now the Colonel wants to send me home." He bit his lip. "But I didn't want what happened to those kids to be real!" he cried out suddenly. "I just didn't want to be crazy! But that means all those things happened!"

"Yes, I'm afraid they did," Heidemann admitted. "But Sergeant, your wishing not to be insane didn't cause them to happen. Of course you didn't want to be crazy, who would? The very idea must have been terrifying. But don't believe that for one second that because you hated one option, that that means you desired the other or caused it to be true. All of this began years ago. You probably weren't much older than those children when Schuler started committing these monstrous acts. You mustn't believe that the reality of these terrible events was some sort of - I don't know, some sort of trade off - for your learning that you aren't insane. One event does not affect the other."

"I know that," Carter protested, a bit unsure.

"Logically you know that, but I want you to get rid of the guilt in your heart before it truly takes hold."

"But I am guilty," Carter whispered, looking away, and Heidemann knew that he had hit the nail on the head. "I did all of those things - "

"Stop right there Sergeant!" Heidemann ordered. "Let us get one thing straight: _you_ did not do those things. Schuler performed those experiments. And Townsend did all of those things to stop him. You had nothing more to do with his actions than if Townsend had stolen your car and run Schuler over with it."

"But I couldn't stop him! I couldn't stop him from taking me over. I couldn't stop him from hurting Newkirk or from hurting the others." His voice grew painfully quiet. "I couldn't stop him from having those two guards killed."

"And Gerald couldn't stop Schuler from murdering those children." The bluntness of this shocked Carter and he stared at Heidemann, who continued, "At least not then. And I couldn't stop Gerald from what he was doing to you. Neither could your friends." He got up and poured both of them a drink and then sat down across from Carter. "Perhaps the hardest lesson we learn in life is that we can't always stop the terrible things that the universe has in store for us. When we're children, we think that adults can, and that when we are grown we will be wise and in control as well. And while we learn intellectually that this is not so, that belief persists in our hearts far longer than we imagine. Possibly this is a good thing; maybe without it we would not be able to occasionally do the remarkable, but as real life forces us to learn differently, it becomes terribly hard on the soul." He glanced at Carter and saw that his words were not really helping.

"Listen to me Sergeant, all of this - what Schuler did and what Townsend did to stop him - none of it happened because you made a mistake or because you weren't strong enough. You were used and that is terrible, but no one would have been strong enough to stop it. You were the victim of events much larger than yourself, as so many people are in this life. You may as well blame the children for letting Schuler take them. No, no, Sergeant. None of this was your fault. It was Schuler's. And what was not his fault was mine."

"Yours? How is it your fault? Aren't you a victim too? You just said - "

"I meant that _you_ were the victim Sergeant. There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened, either to those children or to yourself and your friends."

"But you didn't do anything."

"I'm afraid that's precisely it. I did nothing. If I had listened to Gerald, and not sent him out to get proof on his own, we might have stopped Schuler. At the very least, Gerald might have lived and we might have been able to deal with Schuler at some future point. My unwillingness to act is what lead to all of this. I wasn't a victim; I had the chance to change events for the better, but I was too much of a coward to try."

Carter frowned. "I don't know, but I don't think that that's true. Maybe you could have done something, but it's not like you can really know for sure. You couldn't know how it was all going to turn out. I mean, how can anybody know what's going to happen just because they _don't _do something?"

Heidemann smiled sadly, touched by the younger man's defending him. "That's as may be Sergeant, but I can't help but think that if you or any of your friends were in the same situation, that you would have at least attempted to follow Townsend and learn the truth."

Carter opened his mouth, but then closed it again.

"You see? You can't argue with that point."

"Maybe you had other things on your mind," Carter said quietly. Heidemann noticed that he was staring across the room, at a picture of his wife. "She was sick at the time, wasn't she?" Carter asked. Heidemann peered at him uneasily; Carter's voice seemed deeper, more like…

"Yes, I believe that's about when it started. But that's still no excuse."

"No. But as you said, terrible things happen. Perhaps there was a moment when you could have changed things, but you missed it because you were concerned for your wife. And maybe you couldn't think of taking a risk because you needed to be there for her." Carter seemed to be drifting off into a trance. Heidemann leaned forward to examine him more closely. "You know, I was quite fond of her," Carter continued. "When I first came to Germany, I was so much more nervous than I wanted to let on. But she was kind to me."

"Sergeant, you never met my wife. She died in 1939, a month or so before the war started," Heidemann pointed out softly, not wanting to unduly frighten Carter.

Carter made no reply, he didn't even seem to have heard Heidemann. The older man slowly raised his arm and "accidentally" knocked his empty glass off the side table next to where he was sitting. It didn't make much noise as it landed on his thick rug, but it was enough. Carter started slightly and then yawned, oblivious to what appeared to have been happening.

"Herr Heidemann?"

"Yes Sergeant?"

"I'm awfully tired. I think I'd better be going now." As he rose to his feet though, he swayed a little.

"How did you get here Sergeant?"

"Ummm? Oh, I walked."

For a moment Heidemann wondered how Carter would have explained a lone SS man traipsing through the woods if he had been caught, but then he noticed the younger man squint and put a hand to the side of his face as if he had a headache. "Maybe you should rest here for a bit Sergeant," he said, "You look a tad peaked."

"No, I have to get back," he mumbled, his sheer exhaustion beginning to show through. His eyes opened slightly wider as if he had just realized something. "Boy though, the Colonel's going to be mad!"

"Why?"

"Well, technically I'm AWOL."

"What?"

"I did leave a note! Okay, I didn't say where I was going, but I said I'd be back before roll call," Carter explained. "I just didn't _exactly_ ask permission first, is all."

"I see. Still, I think it would be too dangerous for you to find your way back when you're in this state." Carter seemed to be having trouble even holding his head up. "You'd hardly want to put your friends in danger by your being captured, would you?" Heidemann manoeuvred Carter over to the chesterfield and made him sit down again. "So why don't you rest there and I'll contact Colonel Hogan."

Carter sighed. " 's gonna be mad being put to so much trouble," he mumbled.

"I think he'll be more angry if you put yourself and the operation at risk by doing something foolish like trying to avoid the Germans while you're out on your feet."

" 'spose so," Carter yawned. He obediently laid back against one corner of the chesterfield, feet still on the floor but otherwise curled up with his arms folded across his chest, hands clutching each upper arm as if he were cold. Asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, Heidemann draped a blanket over him, thinking all the while that Carter had to be the most incongruous SS man that he had ever seen.

He went off to radio Papa Bear, a task that he suspected might be somewhat unpleasant.

* * *

"C'mon Carter, wake up. It's after four."

Carter could feel someone shaking him. Still desperately tired, he closed his eyes tighter.

But the shaker was persistent and pulled him up to a sitting position. "C'mon now, wake up. We've got to get back to camp."

"No, wanna sleep," Carter murmured, eyes still closed. His head lolled forward and he felt positively ill.

"Open your eyes Sergeant! We've got roll call soon." The shaker was now slapping him lightly on the cheek.

"Here, try and get some of this coffee in him," a second voice said.

Carter was extremely unwilling to wake up, but he knew there was some important reason he was supposed to be listening to the shaker. And the coffee smelled better than anything he had ever smelled before. Besides, there was something he wanted to tell the coffee man, something he had remembered in his sleep. Now what was it?

"There's no time," Colonel Hogan snapped at Heidemann. Awareness came flooding back; _Oh boy,_ Carter thought, _the Colonel's really ticked off. _Carter felt himself being hauled to his feet and manoeuvred towards the door.

"Wait sir!" Carter pleaded.

"What is it now?" Hogan said, exasperated.

"I - I gotta tell Herr Heidemann something."

Hogan sighed and waved him over to the naturalist. "Do it quickly - we haven't got all night."

Carter shyly took a few steps towards Heidemann, after a wary glance at his CO. "I wanted to say thank you," he began.

"Thank you?" Heidemann was completely stunned. Hogan looked at the two of them, more than a little surprised himself.

"For what you tried to do that night - the offer you made Townsend. You know, to take my place."

Heidemann shook his head. "Please Sergeant, don't thank me for that. It was the only thing I could have done. It should never have been you in the first place."

"It was only me because of an accident, or fate. I don't know really. But it's not something you should blame yourself for. I don't blame you."

"Thank you Sergeant," Heidemann said. He felt both grateful and humbled by the young man's forgiveness.

Carter hesitated a moment and then said, "He forgave you too, at the end. He was mad at you for a lot of the time, but I think he was sorry too. Sorry for…well, a lot of things."

"Was he?" Heidemann asked, a little wistful. "I'm glad if he was able to forgive me. Thank you for telling me."

Carter nodded and then turned and he and Hogan left. After the two Americans had driven off, Dietrich Heidemann went back inside. He sat in his parlour until well after sunrise. Overwhelmed and submerged in his thoughts, he barely noticed it.

* * *

The Colonel said nothing at first. He didn't yell at him, or ask him what in the hell he had thought he was doing going AWOL. Normally this might have worried Carter. Now though, he was simply too emotionally spent to care. There was no energy left for worry or fear.

It wasn't until they had turned off the back roads that lead to Heidemann's isolated home that Hogan said anything.

"I had a talk with Heidemann while you were asleep."

"Oh."

"I also had a bit of talk with Newkirk. He told me what he did and about the things he said to you."

"Oh."

"So let's get some things straight," Hogan continued, "First of all, when I asked you if you wanted to go home it wasn't because I thought you were crazy and needed to be locked up somewhere. I just thought that after all of this you might need a break. Second of all, I don't know why Newkirk said those things to you in the first place - "

"Cause of his sister," Carter interrupted. "He was upset about his sister."

"Why? What's wrong with her?"

Carter frowned and tried to remember. Townsend had known - Carter didn't know how exactly - but he had memories of Townsend taunting Newkirk with it on the road while Newkirk had held a gun to his face. Carter wondered if he had found it out because whoever had been in Newkirk had been able to read his friend's thoughts the way Townsend had read his, and then told Townsend. He couldn't remember Townsend going through Newkirk's mind the same way he had the others, but…

Carter shivered. "I don't know," he finally answered. "Newkirk never told me. I just know something was wrong."

"Okay, I understand." Hogan suddenly felt bad at the way he had lit into Newkirk after the Englishman had confessed as to what had gone on the night he and Carter were attacked. But coming back after his mission to find a large group of prisoners frantically scouring the tunnels and the surrounding perimeter for a missing Carter had scared him. Seeing his CO furiously swearing that his wayward Sergeant wasn't going to see the light of day once he found him, Newkirk had told him what had gone on in hopes of explaining what may have driven Carter to do such a thing, causing Hogan to then vent all of his anger onto _him_. Feeling guilty that he had overlooked the emotional state of not just one of his men that night, but two, he promised himself that he would talk to Newkirk as soon as he could.

However, he still had a few problems at hand. "What I was trying to say though, is that those things he said to you aren't true. Before this whole business with Townsend and Schuler, I had no thoughts of sending you home."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Alright." It was funny, but hearing the Colonel say it didn't make him feel as happy as he thought it would have. He saw Hogan frown at him.

"Andrew, you believed him didn't you? I mean, it wasn't just Schuler and Townsend and waking up all alone in the hospital, was it? That I can understand. Anyone would wonder if they'd gone round the bend after all that. But you thought Newkirk was telling the truth, didn't you?"

Carter swallowed hard. "It's not like I never thought of it, you know? It's not like I never asked myself, 'What kind of man likes to blow things up?' I'd tell myself that it was important, that it was for the war effort, but I'd always kind of wonder. Or at least I did. It was just so nice to finally be _good_ at something! But maybe Newkirk is right. Maybe I don't think about the people I'm hurting anymore. Maybe I never really did."

"Andrew, I know for a fact that that isn't true. That first time, you nearly tore yourself up inside. I know you tried to hide it, but for Heaven's sake, you could barely eat for days. Did you think we didn't notice that?"

"But what about now? I don't do it now, do I?"

"Maybe not Carter, but let's face it, if you did then you'd really go crazy."

"But - "

"But nothing! Hell Carter, I used to like shooting down planes. For every one I'd think, 'We're one little bit closer to this being over'. And I have to admit, I got a thrill out of it. But maybe focusing on that adrenalin rush is the brain's only way of protecting itself; by drawing our thoughts away from what we're really doing. It was too hard to think of the people. You can't - that's one sure way to the loony bin. If I was going to do my job I had to think of them only as inanimate objects - just planes, no people. Let me ask you another question Carter: Did you do it before the war?"

"No."

"Would you do it if I didn't order you to?"

"No."

"Are you going to do it after the war?"

"No!"

"Well then?"

"But sir, I want to do my duty and I want to stop the Germans, but I don't want to hurt anyone, but I like blowing things up and now it's all going round and round in my head till I don't know which way is up!"

Hogan sighed. From the beginning he had worried that someday the consequences of the task he had given Carter would eventually overwhelm him, but Carter's excitement had often reassured him that that day hadn't arrived yet. Now…well, what could he say? He didn't think Carter was crazy. He just like to build things, and he had a marvellous talent for innovation. And then there was the undoubted boost to his self esteem that he must get by not only helping win the war, but by truly being an expert at something. As for the explosions themselves, Hogan had to admit that he usually liked them too. They meant a successful mission was completed. And they _were_ exciting.

If you could forget the people…

"Carter, do you blame me?" he asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Do you blame me? For making you do all this. For making you blow things up and for sending you out on dangerous missions."

"No, of course not. That's your job."

"But I put you guys in danger."

"Sir, you can't think like that. You guys, you think that I don't know, that I don't understand, but I do. Maybe I don't like it and maybe I don't always remember it, like that time Peter got captured and you said we weren't going after him, but I know." (1)

Hogan shook his head; it was definitely too early in the morning for this. "I'm sorry Carter, you've lost me. You know what?"

"I know that keeping us safe can't be your first job. I mean, it can't be cause otherwise you'd send us all home right?" Carter smiled for a second at that last part. "Anyway, I know that maybe someday you'll have to order one of us, or even all of us, to do something you _know_ we won't come back from, and don't get me wrong, I really, really don't want to die, but that's how it is. We're pretty lucky here I guess. Most guys, they've got to go into battle all the time knowing that they're not all gonna come back. You've always got a plan, but maybe someday you won't, or it won't work, and you'll still have to order us to do it anyway and that's okay."

"That's _okay_?"

"Well okay, it's not _okay_, but…" All of a sudden his voice broke, "We gotta stop'em. Townsend, he showed me…" He turned his head away and couldn't speak for a few minutes. "So you can't feel guilty about ordering us to do dangerous things!" he argued emphatically when he found his voice again. "That's just how it's gotta be. I know it, and the guys know it, so you can't let it get in the way."

"And neither can you Andrew," Hogan said as he pulled over to the side of the road. They were nearly back at camp and from there they'd go the rest of the way on foot. "Look, I like parts of my job and the parts that I don't, I still have to do anyway. I don't like putting you guys in danger, but if I spent all my time thinking about it I'd go nuts. It sounds pretty damn callous I know, and quite frankly, there are times when I worry about what this war is doing to me - I think everyone does at some point - but you're right, we've got to stop them. More than any other war, I truly believe that this war is a fight against evil. So you're not crazy, alright? No matter if you stay or go, it doesn't mean that there's anything wrong with you."

"But things change and you might feel like you can't do this anymore, and if so, I have to know about it. And I need you to be honest. I won't hold it against you if you say no. Sometimes the way we can best serve changes for one reason or another. That's why I'm not a flyer anymore. And if you need a bit of a rest, that's nothing to be ashamed of either. Driving yourself into the ground means you won't be able to fight later. But I need to know."

Carter pondered all of this for what seemed like a long time. "Colonel?"

"Yes Carter?"

"Do you know about the _other_ camps?" Carter asked softly.

_Oh God, I would have given anything if he hadn't found out about those, _Hogan thought to himself, and wondered what exactly Townsend had shown Carter.

"Yes Andrew, I'm afraid I do."

Hogan expected the younger man to say something else, but Carter only sat there, his face away from Hogan, his shoulders shaking.

"Carter, do you want to talk about - "

"No!" he cut Hogan off hoarsely. He swiped quickly at his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm sorry, I just can't talk about that right now sir, okay?"

Hogan nodded. "You do know that you can come to us though, right?"

Carter nodded. Then he drew in a deep breath and pulled himself together. "Do the others know?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of. I've never told them if that's what you mean."

"You wouldn't have told them and not me?"

"No. You're part of the team Carter. Other than a few things I've been forced to tell Kinch because he's second in command, I've never told the others anything and left you out of the loop."

"Okay." He said nothing for a little while. "Colonel?"

"Yes Carter?"

"I think I'd like to stay and do my job."

For Colonel Robert E. Hogan, there was one thing that made up for him not being a flyer anymore, and that was the opportunity to truly get to know the men under his command. He had lead men before, but until coming to Stalag 13, until he had been forced to deal with the people under him in such close quarters, he had been unaware of the true depths of other people's potential for courage and dedication. It was a constantly eye-opening experience.

"I'm glad Carter," was all he said. He placed a hand of the back of Carter's neck. "So now your first order is this: get back to the infirmary and get some rest before Wilson goes on the rampage, and then after you wake up, you can move back into the barracks."

"Yessir," Carter replied, tired but smiling. After they had abandoned the staff car and made their way through the emergency tunnel, Carter docilely let himself be lead off by Wilson.

As he watched them go, Hogan cursed this war and the job he had to do. He could only pray that both he and Carter had made the right decision.

* * *

(1) I think it was "How to trap a Papa Bear." 


	20. fate and fortune cookies

_Author's note: Well, this is it. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story. If you've gotten half the fun out of it, that I had in writing it... well then, I really should be getting some money for this! (Just kidding - though, you know, if you really want to...)_

**Emanations of Hate**

**_Chapter 20_**

Newkirk watched as Lebeau cut across the compound carrying a covered tray. Wilson had - reluctantly - agreed that Carter could leave the infirmary on one condition: that he personally witnessed Carter getting a good night's rest (or day's rest since they made it back just before roll call) and one good meal. Newkirk sauntered over to the infirmary and sat on a crate outside to wait. Soon enough Lebeau and Carter came out, Lebeau telling Carter how happy everyone was going to be to have him back.

"Andrew mate," Newkirk called after them, "Can I talk to you for a few minutes?"

He saw Carter shoot a slightly worried glance at Lebeau, but the Frenchman whispered something to him and then pushed him gently towards Newkirk.

"Sure Newkirk, I guess so."

Newkirk didn't want to talk in front of everyone, so he got Carter to follow him to an isolated spot behind the delousing shed. The guards up in the tower could see them, but they were too far away to hear anything, and no one else liked to come around there. Bad memories Newkirk supposed; no one liked getting deloused, especially the first time, when they dragged you in already scared out of your mind because you were in a POW camp.

The two of them sat down on the ground with their backs to the shed and stared at the sun, which was just starting to sink down in the sky. Carter waited for Newkirk to begin, which he did rather abruptly after first lighting a cigarette.

"I 'ad a letter from me mate Bernie who works at the Red Lion. Said 'e caught some Yank trying to 'ave a go at Mavis. He didn't get what 'e was after, but when she told 'im to shove off 'e got rough."

"Holy cow Peter! Is she alright?" Carter asked, absolutely horrified.

Newkirk didn't say anything right away, smoking for awhile and staring sadly out at the barbed wire fence. "Bernie sent 'im packing. Got 'er away before the bastard could really get to it, but ever since then Bernie says she's been in a bad way. She ended up with a few bruises, but it's 'er nerves that's the worst according to 'im." Newkirk ground his cigarette out fiercely on the ground. He had said all this calmly - if bitterly - for the most part, but now the frustration in his voice suddenly came through, _"I should've been there! I should've been looking out for 'er!"_

Carter didn't know what to say. "Are the police looking for the guy?" he finally asked.

"Hunh!" Newkirk said, throwing his hands up, exasperated. "She won't even go to them! And she's got a point; she can't identify 'im and all she'd end up doing is getting 'erself a reputation. People 'ear something like that about a girl, and they get the wrong idea about what sort of girl she is. All those damned, gossipy old biddies; I can just 'ear 'em. They'd all be saying, _"that Mavis Newkirk, she's no better than she should be,"_ and giving 'er all kinds of looks. I've seen'em do it. She's already embarrassed and blaming 'erself; she doesn't need that sort talking behind 'er back."

"Well, you just tell her from me, that she shouldn't be blaming herself!" Carter exclaimed, indignant on behalf of a girl he hadn't even met, "Boy oh boy! I think she oughta go right to - " He broke off, a bit chagrined, when he saw the pained look on Newkirk's face. "I guess maybe you want me to shut up, huh?"

"It's not you mate, and I'm glad you feel the way you do, it's just that it's still a little difficult to talk about. And it's _her_ secret. She doesn't want anybody to know. Bernie said she didn't even want _me _to know. And stories like that always get around."

"Is that why you wouldn't tell us what was wrong? Did you think we'd say something mean? Peter, I'd never think that way about your sister!"

"Well, I know _you_ wouldn't, but I can 'ardly count on everybody thinking the same way as you."

"Your friends would Peter."

Newkirk smiled. "I suppose they would, at that."

They sat in silence for awhile. Finally Carter asked, "What are you going to do Peter?"

"What the bloody 'ell can I do?"

"You could go home."

Newkirk shook his head and, surprisingly, Carter saw a rueful smile cross his face. The Englishman pulled a letter out of his inside pocket.

"I got this yesterday. It's a letter from Mavis. Bernie told 'er that 'e told me. Always 'ad a big mouth, Bernie did. Any road, she told me that if I did anything daft, like trying to escape, that she'd bat me round the earhole from 'ere to Glasgow."

"Wow," Carter said. Then after a beat, he looked at Newkirk seriously and asked, "Do you think she could hold off till I'm there to watch?"

Newkirk stared at him, absolutely stupefied. Then with a loud snort, he began to laugh. "I'll be sure to ask 'er!" he said.

After his chuckling had subsided a bit, he went on. "Look Andrew, I didn't tell you about Mavis to make you feel sorry for me. I don't mean it as an excuse, it's more like an explanation. I wanted you to know _why_ I was so rotten to you before all of this started. I hope you can believe that I wasn't really mad at _you_, but I'm still sorry about it."

"It's alright Peter," Carter said, looking away.

Newkirk worried that Carter wasn't being quite honest. "No, it's not alright Andrew. The things I said to you - well, they 'ad to be the worst things I could've said to you. And none of'em, _none of'em,"_ he repeated emphatically, "were true. I wish to God I'd never said them, but I did. And I'm going to regret them for the rest of my life. I only hope you can forgive me."

Newkirk's heart sank a bit when Carter didn't answer right away. He was unaware of all the conflicting thoughts running through his friend's head. Newkirk had been hurting, upset about his sister, and had lashed out without thinking, Carter told himself. Besides, he considered, what about all the stuff he - as Townsend - had done to Newkirk? Sure, maybe it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't help feeling bad that it had happened. But on the other hand, the Englishman's words had hurt Carter more than anything else in his life. Could he forget that?

And yet, after all the things he had seen, after all of the things he had learned about the Nazis and the horrific events happening around him, his own personal feelings seemed very small and inconsequential. Staying angry over a stupid argument seemed really dumb.

"Newkirk, have you ever had Chinese food?" he asked out of the blue.

"Can't say as I 'ave, no." _Chinese food, where did that come from? _the confused Londoner wondered.

"Oh. Well, do you know what a fortune cookie is?"

"No."

"Really? How could you not know what a fortune cookie is? Haven't you ever seen that Charlie Chan guy in the movies? Why, one time - "

Newkirk, who only the night before had resolved to be more patient with Carter and his nattering, remained polite with only a great exertion of willpower. "Andrew, no offence, but is there a point to all of this?"

"Oh yeah, sorry. Well anyway, the summer after I graduated from High School, I went to visit a friend of mine who took me to a Chinese restaurant and after you eat they bring you these cookies. They're about this big and folded over like this," he said, gesturing with his fingers in a way that gave Newkirk absolutely no idea as to what a fortune cookie really looked like, "and they don't taste like much, only a bit sweet and crunchy, but the really important thing is that they're hollow and inside they've got these little slips of paper with messages on 'em. Mostly they're supposed to tell you your future, but sometimes they've just got sayings on them. You know, proverbs, that kind of thing. I don't know how they get'em in there…" he broke off, a bit bashful at realizing that he was babbling again. Usually the guys would have told him to shut up by now, but Newkirk encouraged him to go on.

"Well, I pulled mine out and it said, 'You will not be punished for having anger, you will be punished by it.' I never really got what that meant - till now maybe - but I always remembered it. Cause you see, I think that's what happened to Townsend. I mean, I think he was right to want to stop Schuler and everything," _though I sure wish he could've found another way to do it, _Carter thought bitterly, "but I think he punished himself just as bad by being so angry. It didn't even stop when he died!" Carter took a deep breath. "And I don't want to be like that," he finished. (1)

"What are you saying Andrew?"

"I guess I'm saying that I forgive you."

"Really?" Newkirk was suddenly far more touched by this than he wanted to let on.

"Yeah."

"Then thank you," Newkirk said sincerely. However, after a minute he had to check.

"You're sure now? I treated you pretty shabbily after all. You're absolutely sure you can forgive me?"

"I'm sure."

"You're not doing it because the guv'nor told you to?"

"No! Jeez, can't a guy forgive a person around here?"

"That's good then." Newkirk said, then he started to chuckle again.

"What is it?"

"I can't believe you forgave me because of a message you found in some Chinese biscuit."

"Fortune cookie," Carter corrected. Then he hung his head to hide a sheepish grin. "I know, I guess it's kinda dumb."

"No, it's not dumb. I think it's a wise bit of advice, and you were smart to realize it and remember it. It's just that 'ere I am, acting like - "

"An obnoxious jerk?" Carter supplied, eyeing Newkirk warily, yet grinning a little just the same.

"Blimey, takin' a few liberties now, are we? Alright. I 'ad a bit more of a complimentary term in mind, " Newkirk lied - he actually thought obnoxious jerk was far too nice a phrase for how he had behaved, "but after all that, you can forgive me because you once ate a cookie 'owever many years ago. That's fate, that is."

"Really? You think?" Carter asked, amazed at the thought.

Newkirk looked at him seriously. "Well mate, you being such a forgiving sort might 'ave something to do with it too."

They talked for awhile longer, until it was nearly time for evening roll call. Then the two men walked back to Barracks 2 in a companionable silence; two friends momentarily at peace on a late summer's evening.

* * *

(1) I actually found this in a fortune cookie while I was writing this story. I tell you, you can't beat dessert delivered inspiration. 


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